


Pure Imagination

by toolatefordancing



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Children's Show, Hate to Love, M/M, Rich Harry, Slow Burn, an overuse of profanity on Louis' part, light humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:59:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 52,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6855712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toolatefordancing/pseuds/toolatefordancing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pure Imagination is full of bright colors, rhyming words, and bright smiles. It's Louis' creation, his very own local broadcast children's show. That is, until Harry comes in, a spoiled rich kid who wants a part of the show for himself.<br/>Louis doesn't take it well.</p><p>Liam is Louis' surf-instructor roommate and has a deep connection with his bong. Niall and Zayn are a couple that likes to get tipsy in bars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summertime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luffy/gifts).



> This is for luffy! Hi, I hope I didn't change the prompt too much, and that you don't mind the bit of side ziall. 
> 
> Thank you to Arielle for beta-ing this as well as being my best friend, which is a job in itself. I never in my life intended for it to be this long, and she soldiered through it. A true hero of our time. 
> 
> Lots of love to The Neurts for always encouraging me and celebrating the small victories. All credit goes to them for coming up with the word "smokel". Don't ask me to explain. <3
> 
> The title is taken from good ole Willy Wonka. There's lots of references to some cool songs throughout, and I'll put a list of them in the end notes as well as some other songs that I listened to constantly. :) Sorry for any and all inaccuracies! I did research on lots of things, but I'm sure I slipped up somewhere. Have fun reading! Tell me what you think on here or my [tumblr](http://www.louisbigfatbutt.tumblr.com)

“ _So thank you boys and girls and everything in between for helping me create a world of pure imagination. It’s been just like a dream. Singing and learning and laughing with you is always best, so make sure to come back soon and be our guest_ .”

Louis’ fingers gently swipe at the strings of the old, scratched acoustic guitar hanging from his body. He sways slightly from side to side as he sings the farewell song and smiles sunnily at the camera. When he envisions the little kids at home, early on a Monday morning before school, eating their cereal in their pajamas, glued to the T.V. screen, possibly even singing along, it makes him feel less awkward to be serenading an almost empty room filled only with tech equipment and a handful of middle aged men. “Goodbye, and please join us next week here on Pure Imagination,” Louis signs off with an extended smile and an enthusiastic wave.

The man behind the camera, a large mustard stain on his white t-shirt and an even larger handlebar mustache on his lip, yells a loud “Cut!,” causing all of the stationary figures standing in the shadows to suddenly come to life. The bright lights that had been shining in Louis’ eyes suddenly flicker off. He blinks a few times, allowing his eyes to readjust to the dimness of the room. His hands fall from the neck and strings of his weathered instrument to hang limply by his sides as he lets out a loud sigh and begins to stand up from his spot on the oversized red sofa. The monstrously fluffy cushions always prove a challenge, and Louis tries to hide his slight shortness of breath as he saunters off set. Well, what they call a set. It’s really just a large section of concrete floor, half marked off with neon green duct tape and the other half covered in a large, orange shag rug that Louis swears is from the 70’s, considering its style and various mystery sticky spots.

As Louis begins to walk towards the secluded corner in the cramped room where he stores his guitar case and other belongings, the crew begins hustling past him to take down and quickly roll up the large, heavy tarp that covers half of the large wall, serving as the backdrop for the half of the set with the vintage rug. The fabric is painted in large, swooping rainbow patterns, all converging in the middle in a mix of muddled, vibrant color. Zayn painted it for the show, and since Zayn happens to be dating the boss, Louis didn’t have much of a choice in whether or not he wanted to use it. He still complains incessantly to Niall about it, sure, but apparently Niall has no sympathy for the migraines Louis suffers through because he accidentally stared directly at the backdrop too long. 

The other half of the set is in stark contrast with the bright, overly-happy side, which Louis affectionately refers to as “Happy Hell”. The grey concrete floor is left bare, with only a large, green X marking where Louis normally stands behind a pock-marked wooden desk. The light sandalwood surface of the desk overflows with beakers, maps and a few bowls that are filled with a liquid that he hopes is water. The large wheeled chalkboard that usually masks the cracked concrete wall is currently being pushed off the set, making room for whatever props they need to create the set for the next show. 

Louis pulls a water bottle from his ragged Adidas backpack, the light blue fabric coming apart at the seams, roughed up and tousled from years of ungentle use. The thin plastic of the water bottle crinkles as he unscrews the top and takes a sip. He puts his back to the wall and slides down to sit on the floor. The coolness of the concrete soaks through his jeans and onto the backs of his thighs. He continues to sip slowly from his water as he watches the crew run around, deconstructing his show, taking it apart piece by piece until it’s a bleak, concrete canvas that’s ready to be shaped into the world it needs to create next. Louis stretches his back upwards, sitting as straight as possible against the hard wall behind him. He can feel the vertebrae crack, his back instantly feeling looser. Closing his eyes, he rests his head against the wall, sighing. Sleep tugs lazily at his mind.

Before he started all of this, he never knew filming a thirty minute show could be so exhausting. Don’t get him wrong, he loves his job, loves knowing that he makes kids happy, keeps them entertained early in the mornings. He loves writing new songs with Liam and performing them on his guitar, even though he’s never actually learned how to play it and just strums along to the beat in his mind. He loves interacting with whichever kid is their Talent of the Week. He loves teaching the kids new things every week and singing along to covers of his favorite songs. He loves it. What he doesn’t love is waking up at the ass crack of dawn on Saturdays so that he can make it to the network building by 6:00 am. He loves running around to film that week’s episode, but he doesn’t love spending the rest of the week working full time at his second job while trying to simultaneously write the next episode of Pure Imagination. What Louis loves is sleep. What Louis doesn’t get is enough sleep. 

His body feels heavy and he can feel himself drifting when he hears the same mustachioed man yell “Action!” His eyes flutter open with no little effort to find the filming for another show has already started, the set now covered with a cerulean backdrop, a large counter placed in the middle with a robust, red-headed woman behind it wearing a white chef’s coat and speaking jollily about the benefits of egg yolk. Louis sits for a second, watching, before he gathers himself and stands up quietly. Slinging his backpack across his shoulder, he walks to the exit, the weight of his scuffed, black leather guitar case feeling chunky and unfamiliar in his hand, even after all of these years. A slight breeze and sunny sky greet him as he walks out of the building and to his car. The compact, steely grey car sits in the back of the tiny parking lot and the carpet seats are warm as he slides inside. It isn’t long before sweat begins to prickle at the back of his neck, and as his air conditioning is broken, he rolls down the windows, letting the wind cool him as he makes his way through the dense LA traffic. 

The hour drive from downtown L.A. to his and Liam’s apartment in Playa Del Rey always relaxes him. The wind tangling his hair, sunshine bouncing off of the chrome and metal cars around him, music floating lightly and static-filled through his old speakers, and of course, the warm feeling of going home that fills his insides helps. Parking his car in the open parking garage, he slowly, leisurely walks the two blocks to his building. Sun shines heavily on his back, and despite the cooling efforts of the wind, sweat adheres the fabric of his t-shirt to his skin. Sweat covers his forehead in a thin layer, coating the underside of his fringe, as he quickly walks to the elevators. A lady inside keeps the doors from closing on him. Her mass of blonde hair sits atop her head in a wild, messy bun and the thin straps of her sundress lay over the thicker straps of a swimsuit. 

“Thanks for holding the door,” Louis says, sending her a quick smile as he’s assaulted with the salty, cutting smell of the ocean. She sends back a small smile before looking down at the phone in her hands, quietly tapping out a text message. Swinging his keyring around his finger, Louis looks down at his own phone as if he actually has someone to be texting. He doesn’t. Liam left for work half an hour ago and it’s weird to text Niall and Zayn because, even if they do all go out together from time to time, Niall is still his boss. He stands absently staring at his phone until he hears the doors ding and quickly makes his exit; the woman doesn’t look up from her phone.

He pushes open the door to their apartment to be greeted with silence. Liam won’t get off of work until sundown, which isn’t for at least another ten hours. Louis sets his keys on the counter as he walks past it, toeing off his shoes. He walks past the living room, looking over at the empty space. Their two large, corduroy beanbags take up most of the room, the dark blue fabric blending into the darkness of the room; the only light coming in through the small window opposite them, the sun glinting off of the small TV in the corner. Sometimes Louis wishes they had an actual couch and some tables so they could act like proper adults, but the beanbags are comfortable and they got them for $40 at a rich-people garage sale in Venice, which is a bargain they couldn’t refuse. 

Walking past Liam’s empty bedroom, the door open and the lights off, he goes to his room. He doesn’t bother to turn the lights on before flopping down onto the bed. He feels his body sinking down into the soft comfort of his familiar mattress and sighs. Taking his phone out of his pocket, he sets an alarm so that he’ll wake up in time to drive back to LA and start his shift at Le Copain for the dinner rush. He tosses his phone over to the far side of the bed and immediately begins his descent into sleep, his mind finally giving into what his body has been wanting since he woke up this morning. 

***

Louis slowly walks back into the kitchen of Le Copain, a yawn finding its way out of his mouth. He raises his arms above his head, ; the crisp, white material of his button down shirt stretches against his chest as he turns his body side to side, trying to loosen the muscles in his back. He watches the kitchen crew work on cleaning up and preparing for the next day as he reaches down to untie his apron. The black cloth around his waist blends in with his work pants, the material coarse and stiff under his fingertips. His work uniform is by far the most he’s ever paid for clothes, but it was a requirement. He still remembers when he was first hired and his manager, Annalise, told him, “This is as high class establishment, Mr. Tomlinson, and you are expected to dress as such,” her nose high in the air. Louis smiles fondly at the memory as he walks further into the kitchen, headed for the back room. 

He reaches the small storage area, where workers keep their personal items while on their shift, right as he hears the door to the kitchen swing shut with a soft whoosh. He looks around the storage room, seeing his fellow waiters all shoot glances at him, their eyes weighed down with today’s shift, before they go back to collecting their belongings. Louis walks to his backpack, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, when he hears Annalise’s voice call out, clear as a bell.

“Everyone stop! We have a customer who has just walked in, expecting a full dining experience. Chefs, get enough equipment ready to cook whatever he orders. You can finish cleaning up later and don’t worry, this extra work will be reflected in your paychecks.” 

The kitchen lets out a collective groan, the workers grumbling as they pull out the pots and pans they had just finished putting away. All of the waiters stand in the small back room, their bodies frozen, scared to move as they listen to the click of Annalise’s high heels on the tile floors. A shadow appears in the doorway and everyone begins to move again, reanimated. Louis rushes to grab his bag and stuff his apron in it, desperate not to be the one called on. 

“Tomlinson, can you take the table?” Shit Fuck Dammit. The breath of hope he had been holding in his chest is exhaled and Louis turns to face his boss. The other waiters, with their belongings now gathered, rush around her and out of the room, finding victory in their escape. Annalise’s dark red hair shines in the kitchen lights, cut in the same severe bob that she’s had for the four years Louis has worked here. Her deep brown eyes are weirdly intimidating, outlined with black eyeliner and full of a barely concealed anger that always gets people to do what Annalise wants them to do. 

“Seriously? We closed ten minutes ago. Why do we even have a table?” 

“Because he is a very important person who comes from a very important family, and we would like to keep good relations with this family. When a customer is this high-profile, as a restaurant, we would like to cater to their needs, even if inconvenient,” She says it as if repeating it directly from a manual. Louis just stares back at her blankly. Normally he wouldn’t put up a big fuss, but honestly, he’s fucking exhausted. He woke up at 4:30 this morning, went to one job, and then came here to work a seven hour shift. He just wants to sleep, not wait on some rich asshole who decided to have dinner after 11:30 pm in a closed restaurant. 

Annalise must see his annoyance because she lets out a huff of breath, parting her red lips. She’s worn the same shade of red lipstick for as long as Louis has worked here. She’s nothing if not consistent. 

“Look, I know it sucks. It was an asshole move on his part,”—Louis raises his eyebrows at that, never having heard his boss talk badly about a customer before—“but we really can’t turn him away. Plus, imagine the tip you’ll get. This dude is loaded, trust me.”

Louis feels the fight leave his body. “Fine. What table is he at?” He grabs his apron out of his bag and begins to retie it around his waist.

“37. And hurry up and get out there. He’s been waiting this whole time,” she tells him, turning and briskly walking out of the room, not a hair out of place as she makes her way back through the kitchen. 

Louis rebuttons his top button and walks through the kitchen. As he pushes through the door and into the dining area, he’s greeted by the familiar pastel blue and black décor. All the tables are empty; the tiny candles sitting in the center of each black tablecloth are all blown out and the dark hardwood floors swept. Louis’ dress shoes click lightly as he walks towards the only other person in the room. Annalise, for whatever reason, sat him in the table as far away from the kitchen as possible, and as Louis approaches, he can see the outline of the boy’s broad shoulders slouching in his seat. His finger is tapping rapidly against the tabletop as he looks at the menu in front of him. 

“Hello! Welcome to Le Copain. My name is Louis and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you something to drink?” Louis plasters a smile on his face as he smiles down at the other boy, whose long, dark hair is pulled back by a pair of sunglasses. His brightly patterned Hawaiian shirt is full of holes, contrasting with the simple, sophisticated atmosphere of the restaurant. This guy is supposed to be rich?

“Yeah, I want a glass of iced water with exactly four lemon slices squeezed into it and two packets of Splenda. Since it took so long for you to come, I’ve already decided what I want to eat. I’ll start with a bowl of lobster bisque and for the main course I’ll have honey walnut glazed salmon,” he listed off his order, not even looking at Louis once. Yep, this guy is rich.

“Okay. I’ll put that in for you and have your drink out shortly.” Louis tried his best to keep the snip out of his tone. The guy is single-handedly keeping an entire restaurant open, the least he can do is be semi-polite. 

Louis walks back to the kitchen, putting in the man’s order and grabbing his water. He grabs a lemon, cutting it into four slices and squeezes each slice individually. Some of the juice runs along his fingers and burns a paper cut on his middle finger, an angry sting that only adds fuel to Louis’ burning annoyance. His annoyance for staying late after having such a long day. His annoyance at the thought of having to drive an hour to get home after all of this shit. His fiery annoyance towards the hipster rich boy in the dining room who offends Louis’ entire existence not only with his attitude but also by the sheer audacity he had to wear such an ugly shirt in Louis’ presence. He grabs a straw, two tiny pink Splenda packets, and his best fake smile and heads back to his lone table.

When he finally sets the drink on the table along with the sugar and straw, he hears the man sigh. “Did you not mix in the sugar?”

“Um, no sir. I thought you’d want to do that yourself, but I can do it for you if you’d like.” Louis clenches and unclenches his hand. The man still hasn’t looked up at him, so he lets his forced smile drop. 

“Please do.” The man is now scrolling idly through his Twitter feed, finger still tapping against the tabletop. Louis bends forward, ripping open the sugar packets and pouring them in. He grabs the straw and rips the bottom half of the paper wrapper off, leaving the top on, and stirs the water with the half-naked straw. The entire time, the man never looks up from his phone, his hair falling in a sheet to cover the side of his face near Louis. 

“There you go. Your soup should be out shortly.” Louis walks back to the kitchen. The man didn’t say a word. No “Thank you”. Nothing. Dickhead. 

It’s exactly forty-two minutes—he counted every single one—before the man finishes eating all of his dinner and Louis can finally bring him his check. He sets it on the table, the man making sure to not break his streak of avoiding looking at Louis at all costs. Louis’ stopped speaking to him, just simply laying whatever he needs in front of him and picking up the dirty dishes. He’s silently refilled the man’s drink two times. Only once did the man speak and it was to ask for two more lemon wedges to be squeezed into his refreshed drink. So, Louis sets the check down on the table and picks up his dirty dish, breaking the silence to say the customary, “Thank you for dining at Le Copain. Please come back to see us soon.”

He brings the plate, drizzles of honey smeared along the edges and a pile of thinly sliced carrots stacked in a pile in the middle, back to the kitchen. Louis isn’t sure if the man simply doesn’t like carrots or if it’s some kind of statement. He really doesn’t care either way. He puts it in an open slot in the dishwasher and turns it on. Most of the kitchen crew has left, only one chef remaining to finish re-cleaning the stove. Louis knows Annalise is back in her office doing whatever it is she does back there, waiting to lock up the doors after everyone leaves. 

He walks back out into the dining room to find it empty. He strolls over to the table to find the bill on its side, a green hint of money sticking out of the folder. He sighs, glad the guy paid with cash, cutting down on the amount of times Louis has to interact with him . Grabbing the bill, he walks over to the register that’s tucked away in the very back of the room. He opens the little, black leather folder that encloses the check to find a single fifty dollar bill. A fifty dollar bill. A single. Fifty. Dollar. Bill. The check was for $47.93. The bastard left a whole $2.07 for a tip. That’s less than 5%. They kept the entire restaurant open. Louis stayed behind, worked an extra hour to wait on the rudest asshat in a fucking Hawaiian shirt, and he got a two dollar tip. A motherfucking two dollar tip. He’s going to scream. 

He bangs the cash register closed and begins walking furiously to Annalise’s door. He knocks rapidly against the white-painted wood until she calls for him to come in. 

“What is it, Tomlinson? Has he left?” Annalise looks over from her computer, her hair and lipstick still in their place, completely composed. 

“Annalise, I’m going to apologize for my language in advance, and I’m very sorry if you find this inappropriate. But, that motherfucking antelope dick of a human being just left and guess what. Guess what he left me for a tip. Two dollars. Two whole motherfucking dollars! On a forty-seven dollar check. LESS THAN FIVE PERCENT!” Louis can feel his face growing red as he goes on, can feel the vein pulsating in his forehead. He doesn’t care that he’s screaming obscenities to his boss. He doesn’t care about anything. He’s just really fucking furious. 

“I squeezed motherfucking lemons into his motherfucking iced water MULTIPLE TIMES! He even made me stir in his dumbass Splenda packets as if he owns the fucking world! He didn’t even look at me once! The fucking ogre didn’t even acknowledge my presence unless he was getting me to do something. He never even said ‘thank you’! He kept an entire restaurant open just so he could sit around and be a complete cum bucket in an atrocity of a fashion choice! FUCK! Fuck him! Fuck! Him!” Louis finished, breathing heavily, voice shaking. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his hair beginning to fall into his face from the quiff he perfectly constructed before coming into work today. He can feel his heart racing, banging against his ribcage. His eyes feel like they’re watering. He really just wants to punch that dude in the face. 

Annalise stares at him, her face unchanging. “Are you finished now?”

Louis takes a few more deep breaths and thinks about it for a second before answering, “Yeah, I think so.” 

“Okay,” she responds and goes back to typing away on her computer, long nails tapping loudly against the keys. “I’m sorry he was such a difficult customer for you, Mr. Tomlinson. I am glad that you seemed to have held your composure until he left and provided him with what I assume was commendable service. I will make sure you get paid for your overtime work. Now, go home and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Louis is still working on his deep breathing techniques, but he manages to reply between breathing in and breathing out. “Okay. Thank you, Annalise.” 

He turns to open the door when she calls out, “Oh, and Mr. Tomlinson? You have a very colorful vocabulary.” She’s looking at him now with the smallest form of a smirk taking place on her painted lips, and Louis can’t help the surprised burst of laughter that escapes him. She looks back to her computer, done with the conversation, so he heads out of the door. He quickly fetches his stuff and climbs into his small car, ready to get the fuck out of L.A. The roads are still busy but not bad for a Saturday night. The soft silhouettes of palm trees line the streets and the headlights from passing cars flash in Louis’ eyes. He’s still silently cursing rich, hipster assholes in his head as his hands go through the thoughtless motions of driving home. 

Walking through the door of their apartment, Louis is greeted with the low murmur of the TV. All of the lights are off, the room dark except for the bright flickers of light emitting from the tiny screen in the living room. It illuminates just enough for Louis to see Liam lounging in one of the beanbags, swallowed by the corduroy fabric, their small, lime green bong cradled in his hands. They’ve had it since they moved in together, named it Scoobert Doobert and everything. Louis thinks Liam likes it more than he likes him most of the time. He shuts the door and bends down to untie his dress shoes, glad to finally be able to take them off. He shuffles over to where Liam is sitting and throws himself down onto the unoccupied beanbag. 

“Hey, you’re home late. How was work?” Liam asks, his voice lazy as smoke seeps from his parted lips. He motions Scoobert towards Louis, and Louis accepts it easily, bringing it up to his mouth and inhaling. 

He coughs a little, the smoke coming out in puffs. “Horrid. Absolutely terrible.”

“Oh?” Liam raises his eyebrows and takes the Scoobert back, caressing the thin, green glass. 

“Okay, so everything’s going on as normal until we close, but then some rich asswipe decides he needs us to feed him right that second. Of course, I get singled out to be his waiter. And, as usual, I do an absolutely sparkling fucking fantastic job serving this guy, but the cum stain just sits there in his ratty Hawaiian shirt—yes a fucking Hawaiian shirt—scrolling through his phone while he makes me hand squeeze lemons in his drink!” 

Liam blinks slowly at him and nods along, so Louis continues. “And all this time I’m being fucking waiter of the year to this prick, he doesn’t look at me once. Not once! He didn’t even thank me the entire time he was there. And then get this,” Louis says passionately. Liam is holding Scoobert close to his chest, not having passed it back. He’s raptly into the story, eyes glazed over, as Louis becomes increasingly louder. “He left me a two fucking dollar tip! On an almost fifty dollar bill!”

Liam’s eyebrow furrows as he shakes his head. “What an asshole! Who does that?” 

“I know, right! If he had still been there when I saw the tip he left me, I would have gone ape shit on his ass. He is literally the reason the world is horrible. He probably caused global warming.”

“How did he manage to do that?” Liam asks. Louis stretches out on the beanbag, pointing his toes as far as he can while lifting his arms above his head, trying desperately to release the tension in his back.

“Dunno, Liam, but I know for a fact that he did,” Louis answers. Liam giggles into the palm of his hand, having set the bong on the floor, nothing left but ash. 

“I believe you.”

Louis tries to lightly slap Liam’s side, but he ends up just lifting his arm and dropping it down onto the other boy, exhaustion and the hint of a high making his limbs feel impossible to move. He yawns loudly, not bothering to cover his mouth, and looks over at his roommate. Liam’s eyes are closed but his mouth is quirked in a small smile; he’s quietly humming what sounds like the Brady Bunch theme song to himself. 

“Alright, Li, I’m off to bed. I’ve got work at one and need to start getting ideas down for next week’s episode before I go.”

Liam opens his eyes, watching his friend struggle to get out of the cushion of the beanbag. “I can help you if you want. I don’t have any clients tomorrow.” 

“Oooo, lucky dog. That’d be great, thanks.” Louis says, finally free from the beanbag vortex and beginning to amble down the hallway towards his room, fumbling slightly in the darkness. He hears Liam call out a soft, “Night, Lou,” and gives him a salute in return. He knows Liam couldn’t actually see it, but it’s the thought that counts. 

***

Louis wakes up to a text from Niall. Louis can almost hear his boss’s slight country accent as he reads “ _you workin tonite?_ ” on the too bright screen. He informs Niall that he works from one to eight today and begins to untangle his sheets from where they’re wrapped around his legs, an elaborate mess from him twisting and turning in his sleep. Sitting up, Louis goes through his series of stretches, twisting his back, popping his neck, and spreading his toes out as far as possible on the rough carpet. He rubs at his eyes, blinking into the darkness of the room. Today has just begun but, God, Lois is already tired of it. He honestly wants to curl up into a ball at the thought of his shift at Le Copain, especially after the shitshow that was last night. Just thinking of that fucking guy with his stupid sunglasses and his stupid arrogance makes Louis’ blood boil, so he tries not to, shaking out his body as he slowly stands. 

“It’s a new day. New customers. New tips. More money,” he repeats the mantra to himself as he stumbles from his bedroom into the dark hallway and the adjacent bathroom. He repeats it as he looks into the mirror. His eyes have little crusties in the corners and little bags underneath, skin pooching out slightly, evidence of his constant state of exhaustion. His stubble is visible and he makes a mental note to shave before going to work today. Le Copain does not tolerate stubble. Sighing and shaking his head at his life, Louis turns on the shower, cranking the heat as high as it’ll go. As he showers, the steam clouding the mirror and the water pounding on his pink-tinged skin, he begins brainstorming possible ideas for the next episode of Pure Imagination. The promise of writing children’s songs with Liam before work and getting spectacularly high after he gets home tonight mixes well with his day off tomorrow, making a smile spread across his face. Maybe today won’t be too bad. 

Turning the shower off and wrapping himself in a towel, Louis reads the new text from Niall. “ _drinks after you get off? you can bring your roommate._ ” Louis hesitates, beginning to deny the request, but he’s spared by his phone dinging with yet another text, “ _I’m buying._ ” Louis doesn’t hesitate this time before sending off a “ _sure_ ”, a smile set firmly on his face. He hums a cheerful tune as he shaves his face. Yes, maybe today will turn out to be quiet lovely. 

He steps out into the hall, towel still wrapped around his waist, damp hair falling across his forehead in a wild, tangled mess. Liam’s door is closed, meaning his roommate is definitely still asleep. He treads lightly over and knocks gently before opening the door.

“Li, you still wanting to help me with Pure Imagination?” Louis whispers it into the black stillness of the room. He hears Liam moving, his sheets shifting under his weight, before he lets out a loud gurgle. 

Louis holds a hand up to his mouth, stifling a laugh, before whispering back, “Sorry, what was that?”

“Sure, up in sec,” Liam slurs from his bed. Louis can’t see him through the darkness of the room, but he’s almost positive there’s a lot of drool involved. He shuts the door quietly and pads back into his room to get dressed, smiling to himself. 

With black pressed pants laced with a shining leather belt, a starch white button down only done up halfway with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and the back of his collar itching his neck, Louis packs his trusty backpack with a change of clothes, a plain black t-shirt and skinnies for the bar later. He can’t risk getting any suspicious liquids on his work clothes; this shit was far too expensive for him to be ruining it. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Louis heads down the hallway. Liam’s door is now ajar, the lights still turned off, so he keeps walking into the living room. The beanbags are empty, but Louis can see a sliver of Liam’s torso from where he’s standing behind the counter and overhead cabinets in the kitchen. 

He tosses his bag over onto the ground by the door, the blue material skidding across the carpeted floors with an accompanied thud, and walks into their cramped kitchen. Liam stands shirtless in the tan room, his plaid pajama pants sagging and littered with holes, leaning against the chipped white counters. A forgotten bowl of cereal sits next to him, the milk hasn’t been poured yet but the lid is off. A silver spoon sits in the red plastic of the dish. He’s taking a hit off of the bong held gingerly in his hands, inhaling deeply, eyes closed. He opens his eyes as he exhales the smoke to see Louis standing there, staring back at him, exasperation and amusement mingling in his expression. 

“You want a hit?” Liam holds Scoobert out towards Louis, who waves it off, reaching up to a cabinet and retrieving a granola bar. Chocolate chip granola bars: the breakfast of champions. 

“I’ve got to leave for work in an hour,” Louis begins to tear open the wrapper, but the flimsy plastic only bends at the will of his fingers, never tearing. After a few seconds of him trying to open it with increasing frustration and Liam gazing on at his struggle, Louis sighs in defeat and holds out the granola to his roommate. Liam gently places Scoobert on the counter next to his abandoned cereal, the kitchen lights reflecting off the bright green glass, and takes the bar from him, turning it upside down and splitting the plastic easily. He hands it back wordlessly. This happens far more often than Louis would care to admit. They just make those plastic wrappers faulty and Liam must have extremely muscular fingers. Biceps for fingers. Disgusting. 

They stand in comfortable silence, Liam picking up the bong and taking another hit while Louis munches on his breakfast. He swallows down his last bite of granola, running his tongue along his teeth to make sure they’re rid of all chocolate; his mouth and throat feel sticky and dry, so he grabs a glass and fills it up with water from the tap, downing it in one. Wiping his hand across his mouth, the residual water smears on his exposed skin. Louis taps his foot softly against the floor.

“You got plans later?” Louis asks. Liam shakes his head from where he’s now pouring milk into his bowl, having finished his morning smoke. “Niall invited us to get some drinks after I get off at eight. Said he would pay.”

Liam turns to face Louis in the process of spooning Lucky Charms into his mouth. “Alright. Sounds cool. Free booze.” 

“Yeah that’s what I was thinking. Plus, tomorrow’s Monday, so I’m off. Perfect timing,” Louis says, tapping his finger along the side of his empty glass, the slight ping from his fingernail hitting the glass matching up with the tapping of his foot. “What do you think of, like, sleep being the theme this week?”

Liam hums deep in his throat to the beat that Louis is tapping out and closes his eyes, still managing to shove a large spoonful of his breakfast into his mouth. He chews, the muscle on the side of his jaw flexing with every bite, and swallows it down before answering. “Sleep? That could be cool. Dreams, maybe?” 

“Hmm…’dream a little dream of me’. Yeah, something like that could work.” Louis continues to tap out a slow beat and Liam continues to eat his charms, emitting a low hum all the while. Louis begins to let out a hum of his own before he softly chimes out, “ _Oh me oh my, I think it’s all a dream_.” 

Liam smiles softly before adding, “ _Soaking in a sea of cream, a large dragon breathing out steam. Oh me oh my, I think it’s all a dream_.”

Louis begins to smile too, laughter tinging his voice as he sings. “ _An underwater basketball team, colors bursting at the seam. Oh me oh my, I think it’s all a dream_.” 

The back and forth continues, each addition getting more ridiculous as it goes, until Louis sings out a tasteful “ _my ass that you ream_ ” and they both succumb to the laughter that’s built up in their chests. Louis clenches his stomach as he leans over, the pressure of his laughter causing his head to hurt. Liam slides down to the floor, putting his head between his knees, the laughter spilling from him uncontrollably, little hiccups peppering his cackling. 

“God, you’re awful,” he says from his spot on the floor, his laughter dying down as he looks up at Louis. He wipes at his watering eyes with the back of his hand.

Louis’ still letting out intermittent giggles. Looking down at his shirtless friend scrunched up in a pile on their uncleaned tile floor making it even harder to keep the laughter at bay. “I know, but I really need to get going or I’ll be late,” Louis says, running a hand down the front of his shirt to smooth out the wrinkles. He heaves out a sigh as he combs his fingers through his fringe and begins to walk towards the door. “I’ll try to text you the address of where we’re meeting Niall when I’m on my break.”

“Alright. Have a good day at work,” Louis hears Liam’s disembodied voice call from where he’s still stationed on the kitchen floor. He grabs his bag, slipping his feet into his work shoes and quickly tying the laces. 

He closes the apartment door behind him and walks down the overly-bright hallway. The walls are painted a bland off-white, contrasted by the dark wooden doors of passing apartments. He reaches the elevator and presses the button, lighting up the down arrow. His foot lightly taps out a beat, his mind softly singing along “ _oh me oh my, I think it’s all a dream_.”

***

Louis pulls into a parking garage not far from the bar that Niall told him to come to. He sees Liam’s small, beat up car, the red paint dull and chipped, and parks in the space next to it. Liam’s car is older than Louis’, which says something, its engine running on good luck and a prayer to whichever god will listen. Liam sits inside the car, his head leaning against the glass of his window. He texted Louis about twenty minutes ago saying he was here, but he didn’t want to go in without him because he felt it would be awkward. He’s lucky his air conditioning works, unlike Louis’, who’s beginning to sweat in the steal heat-box that is his car, his black t-shirt beginning to cling to the sweat on his torso. 

He turns off the car and gets out, walking over to tap lightly on Liam’s window. The boy inside jerks in surprise, eyes wide and searching before they land on Louis and begin to squint in the form of a smile. 

“You really could’ve gone inside without me,” Louis says, standing to the side as Liam ambles out of his car. He’s wearing a button down flannel that would be too hot for this weather if he didn’t have it almost all the way unbuttoned. 

“You know I don’t like to go in by myself,” He replies, shutting his car door and locking it before they walk out of the garage and onto the sidewalk. The bar is about a block over. They’re in the more hip, downtown part of L.A. that neither of them are familiar with, so they walk slowly amongst the crowds of people on the sidewalks, all dressed in clothes far too expensive for a night out. 

“I know,” Louis says. He pats Liam’s shoulder as they walk along. The street is lit up with the lights of bars and trendy hipster shops that call things vintage just so they can sell people trash for hundreds of dollars.

They arrive at the address Niall sent and stop in their tracks, gazing at the building. The walls facing the street are all glass, the two floors inside of the bar fully visible. Bright, colored lights shine out into the road, purples and blues and pinks gleaming off of metal street lights and passing cars. All of the people around them seem to be flocking to the doors, coated in tight dresses, expensive cologne, and the taste of money. 

“Are you sure this is the right place? Doesn’t Niall usually like those pirate themed bars that smell of old men and a bit of piss?” Liam asks. He looks concerned, glancing from the new age bar to the people around them and back down at his barely buttoned shirt. 

Louis looks at his phone, the address of the bar is definitely the place they’re at now; a bright neon sign flashing “The Almighty” matches the words Niall had typed out hours ago. “I am afraid so, Liam,” Louis sighs, pulling the fabric of his shirt from where it’s sticking to his body. “Come on.” 

He sends a text telling Niall that they’re there as they walk through the doors, the lights that flooded the streets are more concentrated and blinding indoors. The music is too loud, the bass sending vibrations through the floor and into the walls. The bottom floor is packed full of silver tables, the metal tabletops bouncing back the lights surrounding them; bodies sit huddled close together in their jewelry and pleasantries, the crowd full of brightly colored shots and heads thrown back in laughter. A large, black metal stair case sits in the middle of the room, spiraling to the second floor. Louis can’t help but think that, while everything does look very bright and expensive, this has to be the worst layout for a bar in existence. Everything is cluttered and shining and confusing, and Louis just wants to leave. 

He almost tells Liam, who looks just as overwhelmed as Louis feels, that they should just go when his phone buzzes in his hand with a text from Niall. “ _upstairs. tell the ba r yo’re on my tab, get what’ev er you like._ ” Great, Niall is clearly already pissed. And, it’s only, what, 8:30? Wonderful. 

He grabs onto Liam’s sleeve and nods over to the bar before he begins walking. Liam holds onto the back of Louis’ shirt, making sure to stay with him as they push through the heaps of people that have gathered in front of the bar. Louis trudges through, on a mission to get to the counter top, Liam tugging on his shirt as he follows behind. The air feels thick as he breathes in, hot and heavy from the mounds of people breathing, laughing, drinking. They bartender eventually finds his way to them, his dirty blond hair disheveled, brown eyes sparkling and alert. Louis would probably try to flirt with him if he wasn’t so uncomfortably warm and somewhat suffocating in this hellscape of a bar. 

“What can I get for you?” The boy flashes a bright grin at Louis, already reaching towards a mixer. 

“I’ll have a Long Island iced tea and a…” he looks over at Liam, who just nods, confirming that he wants his regular, “And a Sex on the Beach. We’re on Niall Horan’s tab.” 

The bartender nods and flashes another brief smile before starting their drinks, working at a speed that looks almost impossible. Liam leans towards Louis’ ear, trying to shout over the music, but yelling far too loud for their proximity. “Where’s Niall?” 

Louis flinches away from the screaming in his ear, leaning back a bit before answering. “He’s upstairs.” Liam nods before Louis turns back around and grabs their drinks, thanking the bartender who has already moved on to helping the next person. 

Louis leads their way through the crowd to the staircase, ignoring the splash of what he’s sure is Sex on the Beach that soaks the back of his shirt. They make their way up the spiral stairs, squeezing past the people who thought that a narrow staircase was the best place to stop and socialize. When they reach the top, they’re met with a bouncer blocking what seems to be the entrance to some kind of VIP lounge. The large, burly man is wearing sunglasses even though it’s nighttime and he’s indoors. Do all bouncers do that? Is that part of the job description?

“We’re a part of Niall Horan’s party,” Louis tells the buff man in front of him. His back is beginning to ache from standing all day and he’s beginning to regret every decision he’s ever made, wishing he was at home getting high and strumming on his guitar. 

“Name?” The man takes out a clipboard that Louis swears appeared from thin air. 

“Louis Tomlinson.” The man seems to scan the list of names, but Louis doesn’t quite believe that he can actually see anything while wearing those sunglasses in this lighting. 

The bouncer nods anyway, and lets them through the doorway. The music instantly quiets to a reasonable level as they walk through, the colorful lights changing to soft yellow ones. One wall is made entirely of glass, looking out into the street, lights from cars and other buildings shining in softly. The wall opposite is covered with mirrors, top to bottom, reflecting the people in the room and the view of outside. If Louis looks at it too long it gives him a headache, so instead he searches the room for a familiar face. The walls are lined with booths and an occasional table; there are a few large, white chairs hanging from the ceiling by golden chains, swaying unsteadily as people get in and out of them. It’s far less crowded up here, but it still takes some time for Louis to finally spot the shock of blonde hair that belongs to his boss. Niall’s standing with his back to them, talking to someone in a white, hanging chair and Zayn, who’s sitting on one of the booths that lines the wall. Louis sighs and takes a sip of his drink, gathering himself before approaching the group. 

“I don’t really like this bar. Doesn’t feel like a bar, does it?” Liam says next to him, his Sex on the Beach already half gone. Louis isn’t sure if he’s just been drinking it fast or if he spilt most of it on his way up the stairs.

“Yeah me neither. We don’t have to stay too long,” Louis says, taking another sip from his drink. “Alright. Suppose we should go over there.” Liam nods beside him and they begin drag their feet over to Niall and Zayn, making sure to go at an incredibly slow pace, but just at that moment, Niall turns and sees them, sending a smile and a wave their way. He’s wearing his glasses and his blond hair is in artful disarray. His pressed, dark grey shirt is unbuttoned enough to show off a spattering of chest hair that he’s always extremely proud of. Liam waves back enthusiastically, but Louis’ eyes are stuck on the figure sitting in the white chair, their legs dangling as they sway back and forth. He takes in the man’s face, his hair, his lack of posture. It’s the guy, the asshole, the hipster trash bag. Fucking hell, of course. Of fucking course. 

Louis quickly turns to face Liam, grabbing his shirt to stop his walking. “Liam, shit. Shit, that’s the dude. The dude who fucking left me a two dollar tip yesterday! Fuck.” Liam’s head snaps around to look at who Louis’ talking about, making it absolutely as obvious as possible that Louis is talking about them. 

“Liam, stop staring at them, for fuck’s sake.” Liam snaps his head back to look at Louis, his eyes wide with surprise.

“What’s he doing here?” 

“God, I don’t know. Maybe he’s a friend of Niall’s? What the fuck do I do?”

“Ummm. Just act normal? Just…” Liam says as he begins to straighten out Louis’ t-shirt with his free hand, attempting to smooth out any wrinkles. 

“Liam, stop! What’re you doing?” Louis bats his hands away, sighing. He rubs a hand over his face. “God, we must look so fucking weird. Okay. Let’s just go over there and I’ll pretend that I don’t know that the guy is a raging bag of dicks.”

Liam lets out a breath of relief and begins to straighten out his own shirt. “Sounds good,” he breathes out. They continue their walk over to the group. Niall has turned around, gone back to laughing at something the asshole said as he continues to twirl in his chair. Zayn is sipping on a neon green drink, a smirk gracing his calm features. 

“Niall! Thanks for the drinks,” Louis calls as he and Liam approach. Niall spins around, the same neon green drink in his hands.

“Louis! How are ya?” Niall asks, giving Louis’ shoulder two good pats before reaching his hand out for Liam to shake. “And you’re Louis’ roommate?” His country accent is light, only really noticeable in the slight drag of syllables.

“Liam. Thanks for inviting me,” Liam introduces himself, returning his offered handshake and smiling even though he’s met Niall a dozen times and Niall should definitely know his name by now. 

“How’re things going?” Zayn asks from where he’s sprawled along the booth. Louis hasn’t seen Zayn in almost a month. His hair has gotten longer, held back in a small ponytail, his face unshaven, eyes gleaming in the soft yellow lights. 

“Good, good. How about you?” Louis says, turning to face him. He stirs his drink with his straw before putting it in his mouth.

“I’m wonderful,” Zayn replies. Louis tips his head slightly and nods as he sucks lightly on the straw. He listens to Zayn talk about going to some upcoming summer fashion show and his problems with the outfit he was planning on wearing to it. Zayn’s nice. Louis likes Zayn. He may be a spoiled rich kid who’s never had to work a day in his life, but he’s nice, not snobbish like some people. Louis resists looking over at the man in the hanging chair, refusing to acknowledge his presence. 

It works well for the next few minutes until Zayn asks, “So, have you decided what you’re doing for the show this week?” 

“Actually, we’ve begun writing the song. The theme is going to be sleep and dreams and all that. Not sure what to do for the teaching segment though.” 

“Yeah, the song’s going to be pretty great this week,” Liam adds, giggling into his empty Sex on the Beach. 

Zayn’s eyes light up at that. He smiles broadly. “Oh, perfect. I was really wanting to come on this week and do an Art with Zayn segment.” 

“Oh, that’d be great,” Louis says, smiling around his straw. He hated that Zayn forced himself on the show at the beginning, getting Niall to let him come on every few weeks to teach the kids how to draw something, usually far too advanced for kids to actually be able to follow along with. But, Zayn is nice and Louis doesn’t mind getting to skip the teaching segment every once in a while. Not anymore, at least. 

“What show?” A voice abruptly calls over to them. Louis refuses to look over, ignoring the comment. Liam and Zayn both look at him, waiting for him to answer, but Louis resolutely bites down on his straw, not turning his head. 

Liam looks like he’s about to say something, but Niall gets to it first. “Oh, Harry, this is Louis with the kid’s show I was telling you about. Sorry, forgot to introduce you two,” Niall rushes out. Louis plans on staying firmly rooted with his back to the guy, this Harry person, but Liam starts not-so-subtly shoving his shoulder until he turns around. 

Niall raises his eyebrows at him before continuing. “Harry, this is Louis, host and creator of Pure Imagination down at the network. Louis, this is Harry Styles. His father owns the network as well as many other broadcasting companies around the country.” Niall’s eyes seem to get wider as he talks about Harry’s father and Louis understands why. That’s Niall’s boss. That’s the guy who funds the entire local broadcasting network they work for. That guy is important. That guy’s son is a dick, and Louis is going to have to be nice to him. Fuck. 

Louis forces a strained smile. He can feel Liam beside him, knows he’s smiling too, tight-lipped and polite. Harry sits across from them, still swaying lazily, his long hair falling past his shoulders, feathering against his patterned silk shirt; the dark brown tendrils mingling with the tan and red silken triangles, shapes converging and overlapping to create an intricate pattern. The material shines as he moves back and forth, catching the light. He’s smiling back at them, his more genuine than theirs. It makes Louis’ blood boil. He’s looking at him now, isn’t he? Bet he doesn’t even recognize him from the restaurant. He couldn’t. He never saw his face before. 

“Oh, so you have a children’s show? That’s so cool!” Harry exclaims, still sitting in his chair, eyeing Louis with excitement. Louis can feel annoyance bubbling in his chest and he honestly just wants to go home. He likes being around Niall and Zayn but he absolutely can’t do this tonight. Not in this over-the-top bar and not with this trust fund baby sitting across from him, acting like he has interest in anything other than himself. 

“Yeah, it’s great,” He replies to Harry, looking away from his silk shirt to Niall next to him. “Niall I really appreciate you inviting us and buying us drinks tonight…”

Niall interrupts, smiling and patting Louis’ back, “No problem! It was Harry’s idea to come to this place. Said he heard good reviews about it.” Louis forces another smile, trying to look nice, but this one turns into something more like a snarl.

“Oh, yeah? That’s cool. Well, I’m sorry to be ducking out so early, but it’s been a long day and I’m about to pass out where I’m standing.” A look of sympathy passes through Niall’s eyes. Niall has always been vague about where he came from, how he met Zayn, and how he became director of programs at the network. The only thing Louis knows is that he’s from some place in the South, though his accent has been worn down by time spent in L.A., and that he’s always seemed very empathetic when it comes to Louis working so much. He always makes passing comments like “that’s a rough life, I know” and “all the effort will pay off, trust me,” and sometimes he’ll wink at Louis if he thinks that he needs extra encouragement. 

“Alright. Thanks for stopping by. Did Zayn talk to you about doing art this week?” Louis nods in affirmation, causing Niall to slap his back a few more times. “Good. Now, I need you to come by the studio a bit early this Saturday. I’ve got to talk to you about some business stuff. Not a big deal, just some chit chat.” Niall pats his back a few more times before looking back to Harry and starting up another conversation. 

Louis looks back to wave at Zayn, but the boy’s eyes are closed, head tipped back against the wall, seemingly asleep. As he turns back around, smiling at the sight, Louis catches a glimpse of Harry, lounging in that goddamn chair and looking directly at him, his face confused. Louis ignores it, walking back to the bouncer and the inconveniently placed staircase, but he feels eyes following him, burning into his back until he’s out the door. Liam follows close behind. They walk silently until they’re back at the parking garage, exhaustion hanging over Louis, the both of them regretting coming out tonight. 

“Zayn’s nice,” Liam says, taking his car key out of his back pocket. 

“Zayn is nice. Are you good to drive?” Louis turns to face his roommate, leaning his back against his car door. The coolness of the metal creeping through his thin shirt, sending a chill through his body. 

“I had one drink, Louis,” Liam rolls his eyes as he spins his car key around his finger. “What about you? You good to drive?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I just know you’re a lightweight and all. Thought I would check,” Louis says with a smile as Liam begins to giggle.

“Yeah, but to be completely honest, I spilt over half of my drink on your back before we even got upstairs.” 

“Liam, you say that as if I didn’t feel a shit load of liquid being poured all over my shirt and running down my back,” Louis laughs his words, causing Liam’s giggles to grow louder, his face scrunching up as he cackles into the empty garage; the laughter echoes off the concrete walls and bounces across the steel cars. “God, you’re helpless. I’ll see you at the apartment,” Louis says, shaking his head with a grin as he climbs into his car. Twisting the key, he hears the engine turn over and the radio begin to play, and he wishes for the millionth time that week that he had air conditioning.

***

The sound of an alarm clock is the worst sound in the entire world. It should be illegal, especially when it wakes you up at 4 am on a Saturday. Louis turns off the blaring monstrosity and shoves his face into his pillow, making it hard to breathe. He lets out a scream into the material, the fluff soaking in the noise and vibrations. He curls and digs his fingers into the soft sheets and kicks his feet against the mattress; they hit the padding with a thud and bounce back up. He lets himself have this momentary tantrum, lets his throat burn from exertion, lets the tops of his feet hurt from their bombardment. He lets it happen, and then he stops, runs a hand over his face as he rolls out of bed, and heads to the bathroom for a shower. It’s all a part of finding a way to make it through the day. 

He leaves his scruff alone, just a light dusting, promising himself to shave before his shift later today; he just wants to bask in this short lived freedom. He pulls on his usual black skinny jeans and his burgundy and black color block shirt. It’s made of some kind of canvas-like material that always makes him itch, but it looks nice on the cameras so it’s worth the mild discomfort. He doesn’t bother messing with his hair, knowing that the wind on the drive downtown will dry it and ultimately mess up any attempt of styling. Louis calls it “wind-blown beauty”. Niall’s called it a “tousled mess of a head” before, but he’s wrong. Walking down the hall, Louis sees that Liam’s door is closed, which causes a weird mix of jealousy and contentedness to swarm his chest. 

He quickly snags two granola bars from the kitchen cabinet to eat on his way to the network and pre-opens them so that he doesn’t have to struggle with it while he’s driving. He throws a water bottle into his backpack. It’s mostly empty, but Louis feels weird not taking it with him. He’s always taken his backpack with him. It’s safe and familiar. Louis slips on his shoes, grabs his keys and guitar case, and heads out the door, making sure to close it quietly behind him. He makes it to his car and out of the parking garage before 4:30, thirty minutes earlier than usual so that he and Niall can “chit chat”. The sky is still dark and inky, the faint light of the moon covered by wispy clouds, the wind cool as it whips at his face. It’s beautiful, really, but Louis is too tired to care.

The building is quiet when Louis walks in, the main room with the set only occupied by a few members of the crew who are standing around drowsily drinking coffee. Where did they get coffee? Louis should ask them about that later. He walks past them, sending a wave to any who look at him, and sets his guitar and backpack in his usual corner. He heads through the doors on the other side of the room that lead to the hallway of offices. Walking down the dim corridor, soft fluorescents in the ceiling bathe everything in yellow, many of them blown out or blinking in their last moments of life. It’s calming in a way, the expiration of lightbulbs. The brown carpet floors twist around a corner and then another, leading to an even longer stretch of hallway, at the end of which is the door to Niall’s office; it’s painted a bright red to stand out from the sea of white doors that line the walls of the winding corridor, all connecting to various offices and meeting rooms. Louis hasn’t actually seen what’s in most of the rooms, but he’s pretty sure that Zayn has his own office somewhere in the building, which makes absolutely no sense considering Zayn doesn’t even have a job, let alone one at the network. 

Louis raps on red door one, two, three times before he hears Niall’s voice drifting through the wood. “Come on in,” his accent sounding heavier like it always does in the mornings, as if he’s too tired to cover it up quite as well. 

Louis walks into the office. Niall’s sitting behind his desk, his hair down in a fringe. He’s wearing his glasses today and tiredness sits at the edges of his red-rimmed eyes. Zayn sits in the chair on the other side of the desk, but he gets up when he sees Louis walk in. Louis smiles at the black-haired boy as he begins to approach the desk and Zayn’s vacated seat. 

“I’ll be in my office.” Niall nods at his boyfriend and rubs at his eyes. Zayn looks over to Louis, “I’ll see you in a bit, Lou.” He sends him a small smile tinged with sadness before disappearing through the open door. Louis stares at the door after Zayn leaves. Did he call him “Lou”? Since when does Zayn call him nicknames? And why did he look so sad? Did someone die? 

Louis looks at Niall who’s looking back at him with a similar sadness. “Did somebody die? What’s going on?” 

Niall let’s out a small chuckles and rubs at his eyes again before answering, “No. God, no it’s nothing like that. I…I just have some good and bad news.”

Louis feels his heart sink to his stomach, feels it practically fall out of his ass. “Shit. Okay, give me the bad first.”

Niall stares at Louis for a while before continuing, as if he’s sizing up exactly how Louis will take it, “Well…okay, so you remember Harry from the bar?” Louis can feel his face twisting, forming into a grimace as he keeps himself from spouting off curses at the mention of the name, but he nods anyway. “Good. Harry is going to be watching the recording of the show today. He wants to see what you do and what goes into making it.”

“But why? Is it for some kind of business thing with his father?” Louis asks as he scratches at the fabric of his shirt, the coarseness of the canvas against his nail makes shivers run down his spine so he stops. 

Niall folds his hands in front of him, fingers laced, sending Louis’ mind into an involuntary chorus of “here’s the church and here’s the steeple”. His attention snaps back as Niall begins to speak again, “No. Louis, this is what I wanted to talk to you about. After this week, Harry is going to be joining the show as a cohost.”

“What?!” Louis exclaims, practically jumping out of his chair, gripping at the arms of it. His fingers quickly turn white with the pressure, his jaw clenching uncomfortably, teeth grinding. “No! This is my show! I created it and I’m the host!” Louis knows he’s shouting. He also knows that he shouldn’t be shouting because while he and Niall are friendly and hang out on occasion, Niall is still his boss, but he is shouting anyway because _what the fuck_. 

“Louis, just please hear me out. I know this show is your baby, but Harry’s a nice guy. He really is.” Louis scoffs at that, but he tries to control himself, sitting back in his seat, loosening his grip on the arms of the chair. His blood is still rushing in his ears, but he’s trying. “It could be really good for the show, Louis. I promise. Plus, he’s not taking over the whole thing. You’ll still do the songs and the Talent of the Week. He’s just going to take over the teaching portion and assist with the guitar playing.” 

“How will that help the show?! I already do both of those things, and the show is pretty great as is, thanks. This dildo of a human can’t just waltz in here because he’s rich and piss on whoever he wants!”” Louis knows he’s being huffy and childish, but this is _his show_. He came up with the idea and he’s planned pretty much every aspect of it since. 

“Louis, I’m not saying you haven’t done a wonderful job. The show has great ratings for a local broadcast. We still have kids coming in to be the Talent of the Week. We’ve got lots of fans for it, but it could improve, be better. Harry might just be able to help.”

“How? With his bank account? His gross Hawaiian shirts?”

Niall sends him a puzzled look at the last question, but ignores it. “Well, he can play guitar for the song covers you do.”

“I already play the guitar!”

“Louis, you literally don’t know how to play the guitar. Don’t tell me that you do because I know for a fact that you don’t. You strum along and that’s fine, it sounds fine for your original songs, but for the covers of actual songs it would help to have someone who can actually play.” 

Louis huffs and crosses his arms, “I could learn.”

Niall rolls his eyes at that, leaning back in his chair, “Right. Well, he could also help with the teaching portion. You’re busy and I know as well as you that coming up with that segment is your least favorite part. You also know that sometimes, when you’ve had a bad week, that part comes as last priority, and sometimes it turns out…not so great. Harry can help with that.”

“The teaching portion is never that bad. Honestly. I may have had a few uninspired weeks, but it’s fine the way it is.”

“Louis, you literally taught kids how to make instant mashed potatoes out of the box a couple of weeks ago.” Louis doesn’t have a response to that. He’s not proud of it, but it wasn’t that bad. Instant mashed potatoes are good. Niall takes the silence as a cue to keep going, “Look, it really will benefit the show, but it will also benefit the entire network. This is where the good news comes in.”

Niall’s eyes don’t seem as tired anymore. He’s even smiling slightly as he continues, “As you know, Harry’s father owns the network. As a local broadcasting network, we obviously don’t have a very large budget, but since Harry has shown an interest in being on the show, his father has taken a bit of an interest in the quality of the network.” Niall is full on smiling now, white teeth glinting in the office lights. 

“And?” Louis is still sitting back in his chair, arms crossed. He clenches and unclenches his jaw. 

“And, that means he has decided to bring in more funding for the entire network!” Niall’s absolutely beaming now, but Louis’ silence causes the smile on his face to droop at the corners. “Louis, that means a raise. You can get paid $80 a week now! Isn’t that fuckin’ great?” Niall’s enthusiasm bounces off of Louis helplessly. 

“Wow. $80. Cool. Great.” Louis isn’t looking at Niall now. He’s staring intently at the spot of wall behind him, a spot where the paint is chipped, white peeking out behind heather grey. He’s staring at the spot, gazing at it, focusing on it, trying to bite his tongue. This is his boss. He can’t yell at his boss. 

“I thought you’d be more excited, Louis. C’mon. I know it may not be easy at first, but it’s really a win-win situation. It’ll be great. I promise.” Louis breaks his staring contest with the wall to look at Niall, unable to force a smile. 

“Sorry, I don’t really care about how much I make off of the show. I do it because I love it. I work my ass off at the restaurant for money. I do this because I genuinely enjoy it. But, thanks. Thanks, Niall, for selling out me and my show for a raise. Appreciate it.” Louis stands from the chair. His palms have begun to sweat so he wipes them on his jeans. Niall’s looking at Louis with confusion and a bit of hurt.

“Louis, please. Look at the bigger picture. I don’t know what you’re talking about, selling you out. This is a good thing.”

Louis shakes his head and walks to the door. “Yeah, no it’s not.” 

“You can’t be mad at me right now. Really, Louis?” 

Louis turns back around, takes a deep breath to keep from screaming, counting to five. He closes his eyes, willing himself to calm down before answering. “I’m sorry, Niall. I’m just a bit upset because you clearly already had this all planned out. I guess you maybe just forgot to mention it to me before? I’m sure you just forgot to talk to me about it at some point that wasn’t literally an hour before I have to film an episode of my show. The one that I write. The one that I came up with from the start. I’m sure you just forgot to mention that some rich asshole who I literally despise will now be the cohost of said show just because he had a whim to be on television one day. So, I’m sorry if my unhappiness doesn’t seem rational to you, but I’m going to leave now before I legitimately lose my fucking mind.” 

Niall stares silently as Louis walks out the door, letting it slam behind him. He walks quickly through the winding hallway, not paying attention to the flickering lights or the white doors he passes. He walks through the double doors leading to the set. The rug is out and the backdrop in place, everything ready to begin filming. He walks past the crew, not looking at them. He thinks he sees a tall figure out of the corner of his eye but he doesn’t look at that either. Walking past his pile of belongings in the corner, Louis walks out the doors of the building and into the parking lot. He climbs into his car and slams the door shut. 

His breathing is rapid by now, his heart pounding. He feels something whirling in his chest and he begins to pound his fist into the headrest of the passenger seat, a scream ripping out of his throat. His voice is going to be extra hoarse today, but he can’t help it. It’s either scream or cry and Louis is not going to cry, he doesn’t cry. His fist begins to hurt, so he stops pounding it into the headrest, taking it and cradling it in his lap. It’ll probably be bruised from where it hit the metal bars hidden behind the thin cushioning of the car seat. He’s overreacting. He’s being dramatic, and he knows he is. But…how can he not be? How can he not feel like his chest is caving in and exploding at the same time? 

The show is literally the most important thing in his life. He worked so hard to get the show picked up by a network, going from broadcasting network to broadcasting network, small local ones and bigger national ones. From town to town for weeks, pitching his idea until Niall took it up. It’s small and it’s the very definition of homegrown, but it’s _his_. It’s been his motivation for the past five years, the reason he can make it through working as a waiter for snooty rich people six days a week for gruelingly long hours. It’s his passion and now it’s ruined, tainted by the presence of Harry. Harry. Fucking Harry. 

Louis’ blood boils at the thought and he slams his hand into the headrest again, pain shooting up his arm at the impact, “God fucking dammit! Motherfuck!” He goes back to cradling his hand in his lap and breathes through his clenched teeth. He feels tears threatening to fill his eyes, so he closes them. He pushes out a breath that seems to be trapped in his lungs and leans his head against the edge of the cracked and aged steering wheel. Sitting there, it feels like only a second passes but he knows it’s been minutes, so he sits back up and looks at his hand. It’s already beginning to bruise, the side of his fist dark red and purple, blood rushing to the surface but still trapped behind layers of skin. 

Louis lets out a sigh at the sight and opens the car door, dragging his body out of the small vehicle. He walks back into the building and goes straight to his bag, pulling out his phone. Five minutes until they begin filming. He sends a text to Liam, “ _we are smoking tonight. And pick up some vodka. I don’t want to remember what Earth is or who I am_ ,” before shoving his phone back in his bag and grabbing his guitar from its case. He walks to the couch on set and sits down in its encompassing red cushions. He can see Zayn standing over to the side. Niall’s with him, which is unusual, but the look of worry on his face and the way he’s biting his nails is explanation enough as to why he’s here. Louis tries to ignore it, but he can’t help but glance over to where Harry is standing at the back of the room. His hair is up in a bun today and he’s wearing a simple, white t-shirt. When he’s not wearing some obnoxious pattern, he actually looks a bit less like a camel’s dick, but the thought of him is beginning to make Louis’ blood pressure rise so he looks away. 

Staring at the camera in front of him, imagining the little kids dressed in pajamas, eating cereal, watching his show, the show _he_ created, Louis plasters on his best, brightest smile just in time for the camera man to count down three, two, one. Action. 

Louis begins to strum guitar in the pattern he’s grown so accustomed to, the taut strings pressing indents into his fingertips as they move gently against them. Bright eyes, big smile, Louis starts the show with a familiar greeting, “Hello! I’m Louis. How are you? Are you good? Have you eaten breakfast? Made your bed? Are there butterflies flapping in your head? Yeah? Good! We’ve got a big day ahead of us, and what better way to start it than with a song! If you know it, sing along!” 

Louis begins to sing the welcoming song into the camera, words in tune with his ever constant strumming. “ _Good morning, kids, and welcome to the show. The more you see, the more you’ll sing, the more that you will know_ ,” Louis sings the words softly, his voice lilting and light, bringing the sense of whimsy that he carefully stitches into every aspect of the show. “ _Join me on this trip through hilltops, mountains, and glaciers. We’ll ride into the sunset and see where it’ll take us. So, slip off your shoes, hang up your hat, and don’t change the T.V. station because we’re about to enter a whole new world of pure imagination_.” He strums the guitar a few seconds after he finishes singing. The studio is silent other than the sound of his playing. 

Louis sends another winning smile to the camera, letting his fingers go slack, resting on the wooden frame of the guitar, polished and smooth. “Today we’ll be talking about sleep! Exciting, right? But first, after this short break, we’ll meet a new friend who has something they’d like to show you!” 

The light on the camera goes off shortly before he hears the camera man yell, “Cut!” His handlebar mustache quivering on his upper lip. Louis stands, placing his guitar on the couch with care before he walks over to greet their guest for the day. He normally likes to say hello before they film, but today he was a little preoccupied. 

Looking around, steadily ignoring Harry’s gaze from where he’s leaning against the back wall, Louis spots a mother and her daughter standing over by the entrance. The mother is tapping away on her phone, her long, red nails clacking against the screen with every movement. Her dark hair is set with what looks and smells like an entire can of hairspray, her face uncaring and unimpressed. Beside her stands who Louis assumes is the Talent of the Week. The little girl is a stark contrast to her mother, face excited and attentive as she watches Louis stroll over to them. Her equally dark hair is up in a messy ponytail and her jeans tracked with grass stains and what looks like yellow paint. As Louis approaches, the mother doesn’t even look up, so he ignores her completely, bending down to talk to the little girl that’s smiling up at him, two of her bottom teeth missing. 

“Hello, and what might your name be?” Louis asks, smiles growing to match hers. 

“I’m Olive,” she says it with eyes shining, smiling as wide as possible to show off her teeth. Louis thinks that it’s good manners, showing off your teeth. Shows people you’ve got class. 

Louis shows off as many of his teeth as he can as he responds, “Very nice to meet you. I hear you’ve got some talent to show us?”

Olive’s eyes light up even brighter as she rushes to tell him all about her talent, “Oh! Yes! I can yoyo!” She reaches back and pulls a bright orange yoyo from her back pocket, brandishing it like a weapon. 

“That’s sick! Really cool! Can you show me a trick?” Louis replies, tone full of enough enthusiasm to match hers. She nods quickly, stepping back to give herself room. 

Olive loops the cord around her ring finger, takes a deep breath, and says, “This one is Man on the Flying Trapeze.” She throws the yoyo out, letting the cord twist around her finger on her outstretched hand. The yoyo lands back on the cord as she brings her hands back together, letting it sway back and forth, giving the illusion of a person on a trapeze. She swings the yoyo back out and lets it retract into her palm. 

Louis claps loudly, almost unsettlingly in the low murmur of the room. “That was amazing!”

“It’s really just beginner stuff.” She’s smiling again, a slight blush on her cheeks from the praise. 

“You ready to do that for the camera?” Louis asks. He knows the crew must be getting antsy to start filming again. It normally wouldn’t take this long between takes, but this time is an exception considering Louis’ minor freak out earlier. 

She nods happily and looks up at her mom, who still has not paid them the slightest attention this whole time, too busy pretending to be busy. Louis hates parents like that, putting their kids last, not showing interest. Unfortunately, he sees those kinds of parents far too often on the show. This is Hollywood after all. Louis puts a reassuring hand on Olive’s back and leads her over to the set. She hastily stuffs her yoyo back into her pocket as they take their positions. Standing in front of the red couch, side by side, they both show off their teeth. The mustache man looks at Louis with disinterest and a bit of annoyance, probably from their break taking so long, before looking back at the camera and calling “Action!” 

“Welcome back!” Louis chimes, “With me today as our Talent of the Week is Olive!” 

Olive smiles sunnily and waves at the camera, excitement clear on her face and humming through her body as she bounces lightly on her toes. “Olive, what cool talent are you going to show us today?” Louis looks down at Olive, her ponytail swings as she looks up to Louis and back down at the camera, her smile has dropped a little bit.

She hesitates for a moment, fiddling with her fingers before quickly pulling the yoyo back out. Her sunny smile returns to her face as she exclaims, probably a touch too loud, “I can yoyo!” Louis’ heart aches. She’s too adorable. 

“That’s great, Olive! Can you show us some tricks!” Before Louis even finishes talking Olive begins to do the Man on the Trapeze trick, quickly and efficiently swinging the yoyo around her finger. Louis watches on with amazement, prompting her to speak a bit more, “Wow! What’s that one called?”

“This one is the Man on the Trapeze! It’s nothing though,” she says it as she ends the trick, bringing the yoyo back firmly into the palm of her hand. She steps back a few steps, her eyes bright. “This one is called Warp Drive.” She throws the yoyo out in front of her, but instead of it coming back to her hand or falling, she keeps in out in a straight line, rotating it in small circles. She rotates it three times, each time creating the sound of string cutting through the air, before swinging the string all the way around her arm and back out in front of her. She rotates the string one more time before pulling it back to rest in her hand. 

Louis is thoroughly impressed. “Olive! That’s amazing! Really, so talented!” Olive smiles, big as ever, looking up at Louis. She looks proud of herself and Louis is glad because she should be. Louis smiles down at her, “Would you like to sit with me while I play a song?”

“Yes, please!” Olive says before turning around, getting a running start for the couch, and leaping on. She sinks into the cushions as soon as she lands, and Louis holds in his laughter at the sight of her tiny body curled up like a cannonball, sitting in a mound on the bright red monster of a couch. 

Louis walks over to the couch at a much slower pace, and sits down carefully next to his guitar. He picks it up and smiles at Olive as she quickly scooches over next to Louis, where his guitar had just been sitting. “This song is about what happens when you sleep. When your mind wanders far away and thinks up all sorts of imaginary, wonderful things. This song is about dreams.” Louis looks down at his guitar and plucks at the chords, beginning to make the rhythm he’s been tapping out wherever he’s gone this week. He looks back up at the camera, smiling softly, and sings, his voice crooning out the words to the song he and Liam wrote. 

Rhyming words about colors and kittens and papier-mâché sculptures, he can hear Olive next to him trying to sing along quietly. Normally the kids don’t sing along, but she’s excitedly whispers “oh me oh my, I think it’s all a dream” along with Louis, making Louis have to fight down the size of his smile. He plays out the ending chords, pleased with himself for keeping the beat steadier than usual, fingers tense against the strings. “ _The sun shining through my window like laser beams. Yes oh yes, it was all a dream_ ,” Louis sings the last line, his playing coming to an abrupt stop. Olive, next to him, begins to clap happily, bouncing on the couch and sparking a laugh out of Louis. Her face is lit up and her hair and clothes are a mess, and this is exactly why Louis does this. 

“Well, after this short break we’ll come back, and guess who we have with us today! Zayn! And he’s ready to show you guys some really wicked art!” 

The mustache man motions for cut and the light on the camera goes off. Louis sets down his guitar, stands, and turns towards Olive, holding his hand out to her. She grabs it and heaves herself out of the man-eating cushions, smiling as her feet hit the ground. 

“That was so cool, Louis!” She walks right past him, heading off the set to where her mother is standing, now whispering into her phone. Olive stops abruptly and whirls around to face Louis. 

Louis bends down so that they’re eye to eye. “Did you have fun? I had a blast with you here today,” he says in a whisper, smile kind and genuine. He hears the shuffling of the crew stop and the cameraman call “Action!” Zayn’s quiet murmur of a voice audible in the quiet hum of the room.

Olive smiles back but her smile drops abruptly, her voice is small when she begins to speak. “You’re one of my favorite shows, you know. I watch you every week.”

“Aw, thank you,” Louis begins to reply, but is stopped by the sudden press of arms around his neck and a little head bumping into his own. Olive has to stand on her tip toes a little to reach around his neck, even with him bent down. Louis raps his arms around her, hugging back. He lets out a soft chuckle as she squeezes him tight. “Love, I only do this with very special friends, but would you like to stay and sit with me for the closing song?” 

Olive lets go and pulls back, eyes bright and shining, “Yes, please!” Louis puts a finger to his lips and motions towards the set. Her eyes grow wide and she nods solemnly, dark hair bouncing with every shake of her head. 

“Let’s watch Zayn draw,” Louis whispers to her before standing up and turning back around. Olive walks to stand next to him. She’s taken her yoyo out of her pocket and is playing with it, letting it fall in a simple, smooth up and down motion. 

Zayn’s sitting at a stool on the teaching half of the set. The chalk board behind him spells out “Art with Zayn” in graffiti style letters at the top of the board. Zayn draws on the rest of the chalkboard, filing the space with intricate white lines of chalk. He’s decided to draw a dreamcatcher for this episode, the lines on the board mapping out the design within the intricate circle; the thin, intertwining lines beginning to resemble a flower. No kid will be able to copy his drawing, never are able to, but they seem to have fun trying anyway, considering the amounts of letters the network gets of kids sending in their artwork. 

After some time, Zayn’s finished. The drawing is really quite impressive. Olive is still standing, watching with interest while absentmindedly yo-yoing. He hears Zayn softly speaking to the camera, a small smile playing along his lips as he says “Make sure to send me your drawings. I’d love to see how talented you are. After this break, Louis will be back to sing one more song and say goodbye.” The camera man ceases filming once again and Zayn walks off the set, back over to where Niall is still biting his nails. Harry has apparently joined him now. He’s gazing at the set with curiosity, eyebrows furrowed. Strands from his bun have fallen, framing his faces, as he stands, feet pointed in at a slight angle. Louis huffs out a breath of frustration. Harry is frustrating. Actually “frustrating” is a bit too nice, but it’ll do for now. 

Louis pulls his gaze away from where they’re standing and looks back down at Olive, letting his newly pent up anger fade from his chest. “You ready to do the last songs? You can sing along with the goodbye song if you know the words.” 

Olive stops yo-yoing at that and looks up excitedly at Louis. “Really? Awesome!” She begins to run back over to the couch and takes another jump onto it, wasting no time to get in the spot next to where she knows Louis will be. Louis laughs at her enthusiasm. He’s had enthusiastic kids on his show before, but never any as vivacious as Olive. 

He walks over to the couch and picks up his guitar, sitting down in his spot in front of the camera. The light turns on and Louis begins to strum again, this time attempting to create some kind of familiar tune. “ _When you sleep, where do your fingers go? What do your fingers know?_ ” Louis sings along to the words, looking at the camera, but he can’t help but notice a white blob just out of his line of sight. He tries not to think about the white blob of a shirt and who it’s attached to, just keeps singing. “ _Do they tremble on the edge of the bed? Or do you fold them neatly by your head? Do they clench like claws against your own skin when your living your day all over again?_ ” 

Louis focuses on the song, the feel of the strings beneath his fingers, his fingertips beginning to sting. He was right when he thought the screaming earlier would make his voice hoarser, but it doesn’t sound bad with this song; the soft melody complimenting the gravely nature of his voice. He thinks about Olive next to him, buzzing with excitement, and about her mom still busy on her phone in the corner. He thinks about Liam getting ready to go to work, teaching surf lessons , smoking from Scoobert before leaving the apartment. “ _Are they pulling out weeds from the dusty soil, but then never rewarded with the fruits of their toil?_ ” 

Louis focuses on the song and he thinks about everything. Everything that isn’t the blob of white death that’s standing just to the left of the camera because if he thinks about it he’ll want to look over at it. If he looks over at it, he’ll think about how next week he’ll have to be sitting here with the white blob, unwillingly sharing his show. And if he starts thinking about having to share the most important thing in his life with the worst person on the face of the Earth, then Louis begins to get angry, and Louis doesn’t need to get angry on camera. So, Louis focuses on the song, but now the song is ending and Louis has to focus on closing out the show. He’s still not thinking about Harry.

He drags his finger across the guitar strings one last time, smiling at the camera. “Well, thank you for joining us, friends! I hope you had fun and expanded your horizons. Join us again next week!” Louis glances over at Olive, who is sitting, staring at the camera, showing off her missing teeth. His smile grows before he looks back to the camera and plays the goodbye song, singing, “ _So thank you boys and girls and everything in between for helping me create a world of pure imagination_.” Olive is singing along, swaying in time with Louis to the rhythm. “ _It’s been just like a dream. Singing and learning and laughing with you is always best, so make sure to come back soon and be our guest_.” 

The song ends, and Olive quickly shouts out, “Bye!” and waves excitedly before the camera shuts off. “Cut!” The shadows in the room begin to move as the crew comes to life. Before Louis can move from his spot, Olive gives him a quick, tight hug from the side and begins to scramble clumsily off the couch. 

“Thanks, Louis! You’re the best! I’m going to see if my mom will buy me ice cream!” Louis doesn’t even have time to wave before she’s running over to her mother, who looks away from her phone for the first time since Louis has seen her. He’s almost surprised when he sees the mother smile at Olive and take her hand before walking out of the studio. Louis would smile at their retreating forms, but his cheeks are beginning to ache from maintaining his showtime smile for so long. He stands, stretching out his back, hearing it pop. A crew member walks past him, going to take down the background, so Louis gets out of their way and heads to his backpack, nestled in its usual corner. He struggles to open his guitar case with one hand, unbuckling the small, silver clasps.

He lays the guitar in the case, shutting and buckling it back with care. Louis moves, putting his back against the wall, and slides down to sit on the hard, concrete floor. He unzips his backpack, taking out his phone and water bottle. The blue fabric of his bag seems to have a new black scuff mark on it, and Louis runs his finger along the mark, wondering where it came from this time. Louis lifts his water bottle and tries to unscrew the lid; it’s a bit tighter than usual and by the time it comes off, his already sore fingertips are red, marked with the crevices of the twist cap. His phone dings with a new text, the vibration makes him jump, sloshing water onto the side of his hand. 

It’s, unsurprisingly, from Liam, saying “ _leaving for work. Scoobert is out of supplies so I’m stopping to pick up some more after I get off._ ” Louis texts back a “ _k_ ” before shoving his phone back in his bag, taking another sip of water, and leaning his head back onto the wall behind him. He listens to the crew working and changing sets, allowing his mind to go completely blank. That is, until the darkness of his eyelids suddenly goes darker and he hears someone clearing their throat uncomfortably. Louis opens his eyes, wanting to send whoever it is daggers but not being able to muster the energy for it. He holds in a sigh when he sees the white shirt first and then the tattoos and the bun and the stupid face that goes along with it all. Harry’s eyebrows are cocked, either confused or judging. Louis decides it must be judging because of course Harry is judging him. Louis has no idea what he’s judging him for, but it’s exactly what someone like Harry would do, the dirty prick. 

“Umm. Hello.” Harry’s voice sounds deep and rough, as if this is the first time he’s spoken today. Louis doesn’t answer, just looks up at the hovering figure, wishing he could magically transport him and his belongings to his car in this very moment. At Louis’ silence, Harry continues, “You were really great with that little girl today,”—“Olive”—“and I didn’t know you had such a nice singing voice. The show is really impressive, Louis.”

Harry didn’t correct himself when Louis told him Olive’s name, the fucker. Louis doesn’t try to fake a smile, his chest slowly filling with a soft burning fire with every word that comes out of the other boy’s mouth. He doesn’t answer him, doesn’t respond. What would he say? He can’t think of anything that wouldn’t involve a long string of expletives and a few graphic hand motions, so he stays silent, watching Harry’s face grow more and more uncomfortable with every passing second. 

“I’m, uh, really excited to work with you. It seems like fun, hosting a kid’s show,” Harry says, trying desperately to have some semblance of a conversation. 

“Except, you’re not really cohosting, Harry. Don’t get a big head,” Louis’ voice is rough as he says it, strung out from screaming and singing and talking. Harry looks taken aback by the response. Apparently it wasn’t what he was expecting. There’s no candles, no cake, no song of welcome, and Harry is surprised, which makes Louis’ heart feel less like it is burning. 

Harry clasps his hands together in front of himself, his toes sliding inwards, his stance slouching and reserved. “Well, we are a bit like cohosts…” 

Louis cuts him off, “Not really”

Harry ignores it, continuing, “And since we are cohosts, I figured I should get your cellphone number so we can coordinate the episodes and themes.” Harry’s voice is less gruff now that he’s been talking for a while. Though his demeanor has gotten more reserved, his voice has gotten stronger, more confident. It doesn’t make sense, and Louis hates it. 

“No,” Louis says, putting his water bottle back into his bag and zipping it up. 

“No? I’m… What? No?” Harry babbles on, his eyebrows knitted now, almost touching in the middle of his face. 

“No, I will not be giving you my number. I don’t want you to be able to contact me.” Louis stands up, swinging his bag over his shoulder and grabbing his guitar case by the handle. “On Wednesdays, I will write down the theme and song for the week on a slip of paper. I will come to the studio and leave it in this corner. You can pick up your note in order to plan your teaching segment and learn the guitar for the song we’ll be covering.”

Harry’s eyes are wide, incredulous. His mouth opening and closing as he stares at Louis. He finally finds his voice enough to say a final, “What?”

Louis shoulders past him, though, walking towards the door. “I’m not giving you my number,” he calls back right before walking outside and striding to his car. His heart is pumping wildly in his chest. He knows that he’s being unreasonable—acting like a lunatic if he’s being completely honest with himself—but he’s fucking mad. He’s mad at this situation and mad at Niall and mad at himself for being so mad. He’s mostly mad at Harry. Harry sucks. And, that’s what Louis thinks for his entire drive home. The wind blows through his hair, the radio blares music mixed with static, and Louis thinks about how Harry totally and completely sucks. 

***

Louis’ shift at Le Copain ends as usual; the customers of the day were rich and social, giving good tips, and requiring many wine bottles to be opened. Louis shoves his apron in his backpack, his coworkers buzzing around him, rushing to get out of the restaurant now that all customers have cleared out. He fishes his phone out of the bottom of his bag, seeing a notification for three new texts. Louis’ heart nearly stops, immediately assuming something terrible has happened. Three may not be many, but, to be quite honest, most of Louis’ days pass by without a single text, let alone a cluster of them waiting for him when he gets off work. What if Liam broke his pinky finger again? 

When he checks, only one is from Liam, which Louis immediately reads first. Except, it’s not an emergency, it’s just a picture of Liam smoking from the bong with a caption saying “ _Doobert fully loaded_ ”. Louis laughs too loudly for the small room, his coworkers sending him curious glances as they walk out the door. He sends back “ _save some for me_ ” and checks his other two, one from Niall and one from an unknown number. Louis reads the one from Niall first, but it only says “ _don’t be a child_ ”, which. That doesn’t make sense. Louis’ eyebrows furrowed, he checks his last text from the unknown number. 

“ _Hi, this is Harry. Niall gave me your number. Would love to hear from you about the show._ ” Fuck. Louis huffs out a breath, clenching his teeth, and growling out “Motherfucking Niall Horan” before throwing his bag over his shoulder. Louis storms out of the room, slamming the back door as he exists the building. Fucking Niall. 

Louis climbs into his car, letting out a sigh. He closes his eyes and just tries to breathe. It had to happen. He knew it was completely unreasonable to insist on only leaving notes and he was planning on giving Harry his number eventually. Just not quite yet. And Harry went and tattled to Niall about it. What a child. Louis may be acting childish but Harry is also childish, and if they’re both children then Louis is the definitely the better child. The child who makes all A’s at school and always remembers to make his bed. Louis shakes his head, ending wherever that train of thought decided to go. The fact remains, Harry is the worst, so Louis grabs his phone, saves Harry’s number under “Wretched Tit”, and then throws his phone in the backseat, ashamed of even having the number of that overcooked taquito of a person programed in it. 

Starting the car, Louis begins his drive home, proud of himself for no longer being filled with uncontrollable anger at the thought of Harry. Maybe he’s becoming a better person. Maybe he’s just becoming desensitized to Harry’s presence, which might be good considering they have to work together, but the thought of getting used to that cumquat makes Louis want to throw some kind of fit just to prove that he can. Wow, he really is a child. But, it’s whatever. Louis doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He counts the headlights of the passing cars instead, 22, 23, 24, 25. Louis’ mind goes happily blank, the promise of Liam and Scoobert Doobert at home, waiting to distract him from the shit parade that has become his life. 

***

Louis arrives to the set, a jumble of ill-concealed nerves. He repeats “it’s going to be fine, it’s going to be fine, it’s…” over and over in his head, the mantra doing little for the churning in his stomach but at least it gives him something to distract his mind. Today is the first day with Harry being in the show. They haven’t really talked, haven’t practiced anything, which admittedly is Louis’ fault. He did text him on Wednesday, though, after he started coming up with the lyrics for this week’s song. He was alone in writing it this week because Liam was super booked with surfing appointments. The warmer the weather, the busier Liam gets, but he loves teaching people how to surf and rejoices in being able to get out of the surf shop for most of the day. Plus, Liam being unavailable this week gave Louis inspiration for the underwater theme. He has no clue what Harry plans on doing for the teaching portion, which is the main source for his worrying this morning. He’s used to being the one in charge of everything. 

Maybe, yeah, it would be better to actually have a conversation with Harry, discuss plans for the show and give him tips for being on camera and a kid’s show in general. Except, since Louis is a hard-headed, grudge-holding idiot, all he did was send a text saying “ _underwater theme. Learn chords to Octopus’s Garden by the Beatles_ ”. Harry texted back, saying “ _Cool!_ ” and Louis threw his phone across the room after reading it. Louis is trying to come to terms with his show not just being his anymore. It’s not going well. 

The crew is just setting up the backdrop when Louis walks in, everyone weighed down with the drowsiness of an early morning, movements dragging and reluctant. Louis glances around the room. A tall guy with curly hair and a pretentious look on his face isn’t visible and Louis can’t tell if he feels more annoyed or relieved. Louis walks over to his corner and sets his stuff down. He reaches his arms above his head, stretching and turning his body left and right in an attempt to pop his back. The front door opens and Louis isn’t proud of how fast his head whipped in its direction, searching for an ugly Hawaiian shirt, but he is surprised—not disappointed, no never disappointed—to see a man with his son. This must be the Talent of the Week. The dad is young, maybe early thirties at most. He and his son have matching buzz cuts and a similar glint in their eyes. Louis walks over to greet them as they look around the room, not sure where to go. 

“Hi!” Louis says as he reaches them, holding his hand out to the father. “I’m Louis.”

The guy returns his handshake, smiling. “I’m Carlisle. This is Macbeth ,” he says, gesturing down to the little boy beside him, who is still looking around the set with wide eyes. 

Louis smiles at the name, containing the chuckle that’s scratching at his throat. He crouches down to Macbeth’s eyelevel. “Hello, Macbeth!”

The boy’s eyes flick over to Louis and he smiles, small and hesitant. He can’t be older than five. His hand reaches out to grab a handful of his dad’s pants. “Hi,” he whispers out, eyes still wide and searching Louis’ face. 

“I like your shirt,” Louis says, gesturing towards the kid’s pink shirt with a flamingo on it. The flamingo is made of some kind of holographic material, shifting with every movement Macbeth makes. Luckily the compliment seems to help him lose some of his reservations, his smile growing wider, more open. 

“Thanks! Flamingos are my favorite animal. They stand on one leg, ya know.” He holds his head up as he nods, like he just imparted the wisest information in the world on Louis. 

“Wow! That’s so cool!” Louis raises his eyebrows and widens his eyes. Macbeth looks even more proud of himself. “Is that your talent? Are you going to stand on one leg today for the show?” Louis pokes at Macbeth’s belly as he says it, causing the boy to laugh and swat at his finger.

“Nooo! I can flip a quarter off of my elbow and catch it!” Louis…wasn’t expecting that; the surprise on his face is genuine this time. Macbeth is still giggling, much more relaxed than he was at first . 

“Seriously? That’s so cool! I’ve never seen that before,” Louis replies. He really hasn’t seen that before. “Can you show me?” Macbeth nods eagerly and looks up to his dad, tugging on fabric of the pant leg that’s still bundled into his fist. His dad reaches his hand into his pocket, pulling out three quarters and handing them over to his son.

Macbeth takes them happily, letting go of his dad’s pants. He lifts his arm up so that it lays horizontal by his ear. He places two of the quarters on his elbow. “I can do three, but I’m saving that for later,” he whispers conspiratorially to Louis before he swings his arm down. The quarters drop from his elbow, falling down only to be caught by the hand on the same arm. It happened so fast it takes Louis a second before his brain catches up. 

“That is awesome!” Louis is about to say something else about the quarter trick but the door opens, light streaming in. It’s Harry. And he’s holding a chair. Why the fuck is he holding a chair?

“That was really great Macbeth! We’ll start filming soon, so you guys can just hang out over here!” Louis stands up and looks at Carlisle. “Thanks for coming to be on the show. It shouldn’t be too long before his segment. Just try not to be too loud while we’re filming the other stuff, if you don’t mind,” Louis says it in a bit of a rush. As soon as Carlisle nods, Louis quickly walks over to where Harry is. He’s set the chair down now and is busy messing with the guitar case that’s slung around his back. 

“Harry!” When he hears his name, Harry whips his head around. He looks surprised that it came from Louis, but the look of shock disappears, turning into a smile by the time Louis gets close to him. 

“Hey, Louis.” His hair is down today, hanging past his shoulders. He’s wearing a weird silk shirt again; this time it’s a deep blue color with waving and zigzagging lines stretching across his chest. Louis feels his body urging him to roll his eyes. 

“Harry, what the fuck is that chair?” Louis motions towards the bright yellow chair Harry carried in with him. The suede material looks soft, but it doesn’t keep it from being ugly. The worst part is that it looks fucking expensive. Harry must have spent so much money on this monstrosity.

“Oh!” Harry turns to face the chair, as if he had forgotten that he just brought it through the door, and then faces Louis again. “I brought it to sit on while I play the guitar.”

“Why?” Louis’ eyebrows are somewhere between being furrowed and raised, his face confused by the multiple emotions brought on by this horrendous chair. 

“Well, last show you had the kid sit with you on the couch and I figured I’d need somewhere to sit,” Harry says, going back to fiddling with his guitar case, arms reaching back over his head. Louis doesn’t know why he doesn’t just take the case off his back before trying to mess with it, but he isn’t going to say anything about it. 

“Why didn’t you ask me before you bought it?” Louis feels himself getting angry. His cheeks feel flushed, which is embarrassing. It makes his cheeks flush even more. 

Harry looks at Louis, confusion on his face. “Umm, I didn’t think it mattered? I liked it so I bought it.” His hands have fallen to his sides, no longer messing with his case. 

“Well it’s my show, so I think it does matter.” Louis says and resists the urge to stamp his foot. Harry’s eyebrows begin to converge in between his eyes. 

“Sorry? It’s not a big deal. Just a chair. Chill out,” Harry huffs. He’s looking at Louis like he’s some kind of specimen under a microscope. Louis doesn’t like it. He’ll show Harry where he can shove his fucking chair and his fucking microscope. 

The cameraman calls out, “Five minutes!” Louis closes his eyes and releases all of the air that has gathered in his lungs in one big rush. He tells himself that Harry is just spoiled and doesn’t actually mean to be this annoying. He tells himself that it’s not a big deal, just a chair. Just a chair. “What are you doing for the teaching part?” Louis asks, keeping his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to look at Harry to avoid getting mad right before filming the show. 

“I’m making some fish and octopus origami,” Harry says it, sounding smug. It annoys Louis to no end. Smug bastard. Who can even do origami? Fucking assholes, that’s who. Louis doesn’t reply, just turns around and walks to his corner to grab his guitar for the opening song. This is going to be a long day.

They’re settling down for the cover song and closing song. Macbeth had to leave right after his segment, so Harry sits down on the couch next to Louis. The fact that they aren’t using the chair gives Louis some kind of victory rush. The victory is a little combatted by how well Harry’s teaching segment went, however. It was much better than Louis was expecting and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. It shouldn’t but it does. Louis’ guitar sits beside him, propped up on the couch. He’ll have to play the closing song since Harry doesn’t know it. He probably should have taught it to him just so it’s not as awkward, having both of them on the camera playing the guitar one at a time. But, to teach him the song, Louis would have had to interact with him, which he just is not willing to do. It’s whatever.

The camera man signals for them to begin and Harry starts to play the first chords of the song. It’s mellower on the acoustic guitar, a little slower too. “ _I’d like to be under the sea in an octopus’s garden in the shade. He’d let us in, knows where we’ve been, in an octopus’s garden in the shade_.” Louis sings the song, happily smiling into the camera. He begins the chorus, not thinking anything of it. “ _I’d like to be under the sea in an octopus’s garden in the shade_ ,” but another voice joins in with his. It catches him off guard, almost making him mess up the next words before he catches himself. It’s Harry. He’s harmonizing with Louis, his voice soft and deep, contrasting Louis’ own. Harry doesn’t join in for the next line, but as Louis sings “ _We would sing and dance around because we know we can’t be found_ ,” Harry sings along with him. He continues to sing along on every chorus; their voices mingling and layering. It sounds okay, the differences of their voices complimenting each other, creating texture, but also, what the fuck. Niall never, not once, said that Harry would be singing with him. He was supposed to play the guitar, not sing backing vocals. 

The song ends and Louis closes out the show, fingers strumming the familiar tune, but his mind isn’t in it. Especially since Harry also sings along with parts of the closing song. Louis can feel the rich boy sitting next to him, smiling happily into the camera and singing along obliviously. It makes Louis’ blood boil. The cameraman yells the final “Cut!” of the show. Louis grabs his guitar in one hand and a fistful of Harry’s silk shirt in his other. He ignores Harry’s squawk and pulls him off the set. When they get far enough away to allow the crew to do their job without them interrupting, Louis spins around and releases Harry’s shirt. 

“What the fuck, Harry?! What was that?” Louis isn’t yelling. Okay, maybe Louis is yelling a little. 

“What are you talking about?” Harry straightens out the creases Louis made in his shirt, his eyebrows furrowed in their signature unibrow. 

“I’m talking about you singing along in the songs? What was that?” Louis folds his arm across his chest, finally gaining control of his volume. 

“I thought it would sound better with some harmonies. It’s not a big deal,” Harry says, arms also folded across his chest. He looks more defensive than mad. Louis is mad. Louis is even mad that Harry is getting defensive. Louis is mad about everything.

“Yeah, well, this isn’t your show! You can’t just come in and decide to do something different without asking me! Niall never said you were singing. I never agreed to it,” Louis’ voice is strained. He’s working himself up. He knows, he always knows he’s overreacting, but he can’t help it. It’s annoying as fuck. 

What he doesn’t expect is for Harry to hit back. “Yeah and I never agreed to working with some fucking princess who has the biggest stick known to man shoved up their ass!” Harry’s eyes are wide, as if he almost couldn’t believe it came out of his mouth. Louis reels for a moment before it sinks in. He can’t believe this. The audacity of that fucking ass hat. 

“You know what? Fuck you. If you don’t want to work with me, quit. I’d me so much happier without you. Fuck you, fuck your money and your rich dad. Fuck your pretentious attitude. I don’t want to work with you! I literally cannot stand you, Harry, so if you don’t like working with me, just leave. No one is going to stop you,” Louis’ voice is low; his tone is icy, but he feels like a volcano, boiling, threatening to explode. Harry looks hurt, surprised, angry. Louis decides that he doesn’t really fucking care. He turns and walks towards his things, quickly putting his guitar away. He gathers himself and strides out the door, not once looking back. 

Louis’ car is stifling hot when he gets in and his eyes are burning. He didn’t realize he was the kind of person to cry when he’s angry. He never got angry very often before he met Harry. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like Harry and the way he just barged into his life, constantly making him feel so shitty and angry and not himself. He just hates this whole situation but he can’t change that, can’t change what’s happened, so instead he just focuses on rolling down the windows and trying to avoid dying of heat stroke. 

***

They don’t talk about it. They don’t mention it. Louis is surprised that Harry didn’t tell Niall about their little spat, or at least surprised that if Harry did tell him, Niall hasn’t said anything. But it’s fine, really. Week after week, Louis sends Harry a single text and then they see each other on Saturday mornings, and that’s it. Harry hasn’t stopped singing along with the songs, which makes Louis want to tear his head off with his bare hands, but he’s coping. He can cope with having to trust the person he dislikes most with a part of his show. He can deal with having to sit next to him to sing songs, or god forbid, have Harry pull out that yellow suede monster to sit on while he plays guitar. He can keep his anger at bay as Harry sings along with every single cover that they do, as well as the closing song, which he has now learned all the words to. He isn’t happy about any of it, but he’s coping. He’s learning to live with the fact that the happiest part of his week is no longer happy but his biggest source of dread. It’s really all fine. Louis is doing just spectacular.

Louis walks off the set, finished filming for the day. Harry sits on the couch, tuning his guitar, while the crew begin to work around him. Of course he doesn’t bother moving out of the way for them to do their jobs. Louis shakes his head but then shakes it off. He’s found that if he doesn’t dwell thinking about how snobbish Harry is he won’t get angry. He may roll his eyes and a tiny vein in his forehead might twitch, but he won’t want to scream at him. It’s progress. He sits on the floor next to his things. He used to sit here until the next show began filming, just relaxing before his drive home, but ever since Harry joined the show, Louis has found himself running out the door as fast as possible. But, he’s tired of that, so he sits on the ground, leaning back, and taking a small stand for himself, even though no one else knows or cares. Louis is sitting in his usual spot and it feels nice. 

Except he begins to doze off in his usual spot, head lolling back against the cement wall behind him. He jerks awake at the sound of a booming laugh emitting from the set. Fucking hell. It feels like strained his neck from looking up so fast. He rubs at it as he sends a glare over at the lady teaching the cooking show, her pasta noodles covering the countertop. That’s probably what prompted the laughter. Louis rubs at his neck some more before finally getting up and leaving. The warmth from the sun beams onto his face as he walks out the door. There isn’t a cloud in the sky today, everything soft and blue and bathed in the glowing, white light of the sunshine. It’s beautiful out today. Liam will enjoy it, probably rejoicing in the cool, salty ocean waves. Lucky bastard. Louis thinks about his shift later today at Le Copain and cringes. 

Right as he makes it to his car, fingers burning against the heated metal of his door handle, Louis hears Harry’s voice reaching across the small parking lot. “Fine!” Harry isn’t screaming, but it’s definitely close. The only time Louis has heard him raise his voice like that was when he told him he had a stick up his ass. Louis raises his eyebrows, curiosity getting the best of him, and inches away from his car. He looks over the truck parked next to him and sees Harry standing, staring down at his motorcycle and running a hand repeatedly through his hair. Louis stares at the way his dark hair turns to dark honey in the glare of the sun, the way that the pattern of this week’s Hawaiian shirt contrasts with the sparkling gold helmet dangling from his hand. But, then Harry turns, running a hand across his face before opening his eyes. Louis doesn’t have time to move before Harry sees him staring, head poking out from behind the large, black truck next to him. They hold eye contact for far too long, both with wide eyes and open mouths, but then Louis lets out something akin to a squeak, which he will deny if asked about, and scrambles back to his driver’s side door, yanking at the handle until it opens. 

It really isn’t a big deal, just a coworker staring intently at another coworker while hiding behind a large vehicle, but Louis can feel himself flushing. He blames it on the temperature of the car as he buckles his seatbelt, the plastic hot and the metal of the buckles burning his knuckle as it bumps into it. Louis is just starting the car when he hears a rapping on the car window. He jumps out of fucking skin, head hitting the top of his car and head whipping around to seek out the source of the noise. It’s Harry, bent over, face scrunched as he looks into the window at Louis. Fuck. Louis takes a deep breath. He grabs the crank, using far too much of his strength to roll the window down because this goddamn car is old and the window is manual, moving down at the absolute slowest pace possible. Harry and Louis stare at each other silently, waiting for the window to roll down far enough. Louis thinks it would be a lovely time for the sky to open up, sucking him through the atmosphere, and hurling him into space. The asteroids must be lovely this time of year. 

After far too long, the window is down, but Harry isn’t speaking, just staring at Louis. His eyebrows are furrowed but he also looks amused. Harry has the worst facial expressions Louis has ever seen. 

Louis clears his throat. “Can I help you?” He asks, trying and failing to sound casual. 

Harry runs his hand through his hair, still bent over, staring into the window. His face is too close for Louis’ liking. He almost says something about it, about Harry needing to learn about personal space, but he doesn’t want to prolong this encounter. “Um…actually. I’m really sorry about this, but do you think there’s any way you could give me a ride?” Harry says it excruciatingly slow, as if he’s pulling out his own teeth with every word. 

“What?” Louis blinks back at Harry. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. 

“I need a ride. Please,” Harry repeats, letting out a sigh and running his hand through his hair yet again. “Look, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t really need help. My bike is broken down and the towing place can’t be here to get it for another half hour, and my cat has a vet appointment that I’ll miss if I don’t leave, like, right now.” This time he says it almost too fast, trying to get the explanation out before Louis can say no. 

Harry looks upset; he won’t stop running his hand through his hair and his eyebrows are converging into one. “Okay,” Louis says, almost surprising himself. Harry looks surprised too, his eyebrows detangling themselves from each other to raise up, his forehead crinkling. “But only for the health of your cat. Cats are important,” Louis quickly tacks on, nodding to himself. 

“Thanks,” Harry says, still seeming to be in shock from Louis’ offer of help. He just stands there, leaning towards Louis’ open window. 

Louis blinks a few times, Harry still unmoving. “Are you…going to get in the car? I can’t really give you a ride if you aren’t in the car,” Louis says, coming back to himself and the light hum of annoyance that he is so accustomed to feeling in Harry’s presence.

“Right,” Harry says, straightening himself out and walking around to the passenger side. He opens the door and climbs in, feet crunching on the stray granola bar wrappers scattering the floor. The door slams closed. They both hold their breath. 

It’s normal for them to sit next to each other on the couch on set, but this is…different. This is cramped and overly warm and not work. The air is tense and uneasy. Louis begins to drive, not knowing where it is exactly that he’s heading. 

“So, where am I driving you?” Louis finally breaks the silence after a few minutes. He had started driving further downtown and Harry hadn’t said anything so he figured he was headed in the right direction. 

“My apartment. You pretty much just follow this road. I’ll tell you where to turn,” Harry says, staring out the windshield, eyes raking over the palm tree-lined streets in front of them. Traffic is brutal, almost completely stand-still. They’re going to be here a while, so Louis turns on the radio, the static coming on before the music. It hums quietly in the even more silent car. They both sit uncomfortably. Louis feels like he’s wearing the wrong skin, too tight and not quite his own. 

He tries to break the silence again, hoping to alleviate some of the awkwardness. “So, why is your cat going to the vet? Are they okay?” Louis taps his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Sybil has an appointment to get her teeth cleaned,” Harry says. He doesn’t look over to Louis, keeping his eyes fixed on the barely moving cars in front of him. 

“Oh. I can see why you wouldn’t want to miss that. Very important stuff, teeth cleaning,” Louis says. He means for his tone to be joking, but it comes out more biting than intended. Harry turns his head, looking out his window and staring at the other cars sitting in the congestion. 

“It’s so hot in here. Can you not turn on the air or something?” Harry says, voice whiny, still staring out the passenger side window. Louis clenches his teeth.

“It’s broken.”

Harry sighs, “You should get that fixed.” 

Louis grips the steering wheel, keeping himself from saying anything back. He breathes for a while before turning up the radio volume. Harry’s right. It is hot in here; the hot steel from the cars around them reflecting sunlight into their car, his shirt beginning to cling to his skin. There’s no breeze in the unmoving car to cool them down, and, no it isn’t enjoyable, but Louis also doesn’t really have the money to spend on getting car repairs right now. He doesn’t say that though, just drives steadily in the barely moving traffic, sun glinting in his eyes, breathing in the warm summer air. 

They’ve finally escaped the traffic, riding through a part of town Louis has never been to. Rows of tan and beige building surround him on all sides, the air somehow even smells better here. It’s been thirty minutes and he and Harry haven’t spoken other than Harry telling him the occasional direction. The silence was uncomfortable at first, but now it just hangs in the air, noticeable and content. The buildings around them seem to be steadily growing in size. Louis feels small and unwelcome in his old, clunking car. He’s thinking about how they actually may be shrinking instead of the buildings getting bigger, but Harry startles him away from his thoughts when his deep voice rumbles out “Take a right up here.” Harry is still looking out his window, his limbs curled up close to his body, shrunken in and as small as possible.

Louis’ about to go back to his thoughts of shrinking down, being microscopic and getting stepped on by a large duck, but then Harry speaks again, this time softer, more reserved. “Why do you hate me?” He asks the question, not looking away from the window, his chin tucked up against his shoulder. 

Louis glances over at him, feeling his heart sink involuntarily at the sight of Harry so small, cramped into the corner of Louis’ car. Harry is annoying and lays claim to things he shouldn’t, but he should never be made to look this small, closing in on himself like the origami he so easily folds. Louis swallows hard. “What are you talking about?” His voice his feeble, struggling and clawing out of his throat with every word. 

Harry finally turns and looks at Louis for the first time since he got in the car. Louis looks away, staring intently at the car in front of him, not wanting to see Harry’s eyes. “Louis, you’ve hated me since the first day I was on the show,” Harry says, he doesn’t sound so small anymore but his voice is still low and restrained in a way that Louis is unused to hearing. Louis doesn’t mention that he hated him before then as well. He glances back over at Harry and regrets it. Harry’s eyebrows are furrowed as they so often are, but his eyes are filled with a sadness that Louis has never seen there before. Louis has seen Harry look prideful and arrogant, bored and angry, but never sad. 

And, Louis hates this guy, this rich boy who is rude and thoughtless. He’s this giant who walks wherever he pleases, not looking where he’s going, not even realizing that he’s squashes other people flat with every step. Louis hates him, but for whatever reason, his chest aches at the look in his eyes, the insecurity in his voice. The thought of reaching out and comforting him briefly passes through his head, which Louis promptly ignores. 

“I don’t hate you,” Louis replies, but it’s weak even to his own ears. 

“Yes you do. Louis, you’ve always hated me and I just…I don’t understand why. What did I ever do?” Louis doesn’t look back over, just grips the steering wheel tighter, hands aching. What can he even say? He can’t mention the restaurant because how fucking awkward would that be? How would he even bring that up? “Oh hey, remember that waiter you were a dick to over a month ago?” No. How do can he explain to Harry what it’s like to be in Louis’ position when Harry has gotten everything he’s ever wanted handed to him? Louis hears Harry sigh, his thoughts still racing around his mind. He hadn’t even realized how long he had been silent. 

“This is my building. You can stop here,” Harry sounds defeated. Louis panics, quickly pulling over and stomping the brakes. Harry grabs his things from the floorboard. 

“Harry, wait,” Louis says it too loud for the bated breath and shaky hands that the moment calls for. It works though, Harry’s hand stilling from where it was reaching for the handle. “I’m…” Louis pauses, collecting himself, slowly working his lungs in and out. “Why did you join the show? How did you get a part on it?” 

Harry looks confused, turning his body away from the door to face Louis. “I, well. I moved to L.A. because I wanted to do something that I felt was, I don’t know, worthwhile, I guess. Everything in New York was just senseless and my friends didn’t care and I was tired of it. So, when I moved here, I talked to Niall and he told me about the show. I like kids, so I figured it’d be fun to give it a shot,” Harry says it slowly, inching out every word, selecting them carefully. He says it like he hadn’t really thought about it before. Louis tries not to get upset, tries not to think about the nonchalant manner in which Harry waltzed into his life and took a shit on everything. 

Harry shifts in his seat. “Why? What does that matter?” 

Louis takes a deep breath. He turns away from Harry, staring at the road in front of them. It’s empty now, the tan buildings and black fences shining and dripping in money. “I dropped out of college after a year and a half.” Louis traces his finger along the side of the steering wheel, feeling every crevice and bump along its surface. “I was majoring in drama, wanted to be on TV more than anything, but it was unrealistic for me. Debt was piling up and I was staring into a future of unknowns, and I couldn’t do it anymore. I was 19 years old when I became a waiter at this rundown family restaurant. I hated everything about it. It was…I just wasn’t happy.”

Louis breathes steadily. He doesn’t really talk about himself, his life, with other people. He doesn’t mention the two years spent in the worst apartment known to man, eating noodles with a plastic fork. He doesn’t mention his four roommates cramped into that tiny space or how he has never felt more alone than he did back then, always surrounded by so many people. He was lucky to have found Liam. “Anyway, I got tired of living like that, of being so…” Louis stops himself. He looks over at Harry before he continues. “I just felt I could be so much more, and so I started to come up with this idea of a kid’s show. I wrote songs for it and thought of different names and activities to do. It took a while, but I finally started going around to broadcasting networks, all over California, pitching this idea for my own show. I went to so many I lost count. They all turned me away, not a single one willing to even listen to me.”

Harry is looking back at Louis. They’re staring at each other, Louis talking, Harry listening. The radio isn’t playing anymore; Louis doesn’t remember when he turned it off. “Eventually Niall called me. His network was one of the first ones I had talked to, one of the first to turn me down, but he said that they were desperate for something to fill a morning timeslot and that they’d changed their mind,” Louis remembers the phone call with a smile. Niall’s accent had been so foreign to him then, his loud laughter and rough back-pats so jarring. “It had taken me three years since I dropped out of school but I finally felt like I could be myself, have something for myself. I work another job six days a week in order to support myself, and it is complete shit, honestly. I’ve been doing the show on my own for a little over two years now and, though it may only take up a small portion of my time, it’s my life, my reason to wake up in the morning. It’s always been my motivation and the, albeit small, manifestation of my dreams.”

Louis stares at Harry, pausing. Harry hasn’t moved, doesn’t even seem like he’s breathed since Louis began talking. The car feels like it’s gotten smaller. Maybe it is shrinking after all. “Do you get that? I mean, the show, even though it may be insignificant in the grand scheme of television, is everything to me. It’s my baby, my creation. And then you came in and decided that you wanted it to be yours too. No one asked me, no one even talked to me about it until the first day you were on set.” Louis finally looks away, watches a single car as it drives past. He feels Harry’s eyes still on him, burning, singeing the side of his face. “Look, I’m sorry that I was horrible to you. I…I’ll work on it. I just…You took the best thing in my life because you got bored. I know you didn’t mean to, but you did.” Louis can’t look back to Harry, feels too open, raw and spread out for the world to see, to dissect. Is this a thing people do? Talk about feelings? Because this is horrible. 

They sit silently, the only sound found in the shallowness of their breathing and the flash of a stray passing car. Louis doesn’t know how long they sit there. Doesn’t Harry’s cat have a teeth appointment to get to?

Louis is working up the courage to ask that very question when Harry’s voice breaks through the tense air between them. “I’m sorry,” he says it quietly. There’s a weight in the words that presses against Louis’ skin as they wash over him. “I really didn’t know and I’m sorry.” Louis looks over at Harry, finding his eyes already on him, full of sincerity.

Louis lets his mouth curve into the smallest of smiles, nodding to Harry, letting him know that he understands. He understands that Harry didn’t mean to fuck up anything by being on the show. He understands that Harry genuinely is sorry. He hopes that Harry understands that he doesn’t forgive him, not yet, but he’ll try to. 

“Go take your cat to their appointment. Teeth cleaning is very important,” Louis says, looking back at the road. He hears Harry getting out of the car, letting his body stretch out after being confined for so long. 

Harry leans down, holding the door open while he gazes at Louis. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before he sighs. “Thank you for the ride, Louis,” Harry says, standing up and closing the door before Louis has time to respond. Harry walks to the front door of one of the identically fancy buildings lining the streets. Louis puts the car in drive and tries to find his way back home. He doesn’t want to think about Harry and the way he crumbled in on himself as he sat in the passenger seat, sadness and defeat in his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about the way he just told Harry more about himself than Louis is comfortable with him knowing. Louis definitely doesn’t want to think about how the thought of Harry doesn’t make him want to explode but just makes him feel muddled and grey. Well, you can’t always get what you want. 

*** 

On Monday morning, Louis and Liam lay on their beanbags, staring at the TV. The small window across from them lets in the sun, light shining into their eyes, lighting up the otherwise dark room. Liam is sitting in his work clothes, khaki shorts and a light blue polo with the surf shop logo sitting on his chest in bright yellow writing. He always sits with Louis and watches the airing of Pure Imagination on Mondays before he goes to work. Liam really is the most supportive friend and Louis is so grateful that he saw the ad for a roommate Liam put on Craigslist those years ago. Not just because it let him move out of his shitty, overcrowded apartment but because Liam helps Louis feel like he isn’t alone in this. Liam also hooks him up with a constant supply of weed, which is always appreciated. 

The show is playing quietly, both of them unable to listen to anything too loud at this time in the morning. Louis watches as he and Harry sit down for the last segment, both smiling from the screen, teeth shining and faces bright. They’re singing along to the song of the week, voices mingling, sounding soft and humming out the tune. “ _What a beautiful face I have found in this place that is circling all ‘round the sun_ ,” he and Harry sing together. It really does sound good. Louis doesn’t hate that thought as much as he had the past few weeks. “ _And when we meet on a cloud, I’ll be laughing out loud. I’ll be laughing with everyone I see. Can’t believe how strange it is to be anything at all_.” Harry’s face is smiling, fingers nimbly playing the strings of his guitar. He and Louis sit next to each other on that big red couch, bodies tense. They’re next to each other but so distant. Watching it makes Louis wants to turn the TV off, which hasn’t been an unusual occurrence since Harry joined the show.

Harry confuses Louis. If anything Louis should hate him more after Harry confirmed what Louis suspected, that he just joined the show because of a bored whim. Except, he doesn’t. He doesn’t like Harry either. Louis feels like his guts are all twisting around inside of him, getting tangled in each other, his body desperately trying to find a way out of the conflict in Louis’ head. Everything just feels fucked up, and Louis wishes he could blame it on Harry being a fuckwit but that’s not what this is about. Not this time. He finds it in himself to blame Harry anyway. 

Louis doesn’t realize that the show is off, a commercial for used cars blaring on the screen, until Liam struggles out of the beanbag next to him. He yawns and stretches as he stands, blue polo pulling tight against his chest. 

“I’ve got to go. First clients today are some uptight couple on their honeymoon, so I can’t be late. I’ll see you later, Lou,” Liam says, voice fading as he walks away from Louis and towards the door. 

Louis calls out a faint goodbye just as the door closes. He grabs the remote and turns off the TV, flinging it over to the side after the screen goes dim. He runs a hand over his face and sinks further into the beanbag, letting it consume him. Maybe he’ll sink through the beanbag and fall through the floor. Maybe he’ll keep falling, sinking through layers of wood and carpet and plaster, until he hits the ground. Maybe he’ll keep sinking through the ground, never stopping until he meets metal and magma and burns away into ash. Maybe he should smoke some pot. That sounds like a better plan than sinking into the Earth’s core, so Louis gets up, grabbing Scoobert and the baggie of supplies they always keep next to the bong.

Breathing in the smoke, closing his eyes, Louis feels himself begin to relax. He keeps thinking about falling through the universe, never stopping. 

After Louis has consumed about half of his box of granola bars, he hears his phone ding with a message. Reaching over, Louis opens the text from Zayn, “ _art this week?_ ” Louis replies with a thumbs up emoji before sighing and flopping onto his back. What is this week’s theme even going to be? Shit, Louis needs to start writing the song today. He normally has some kind of idea by now, but he’s drawing a blank; his mind has been floating and weaving away from any form of thought these past few days. Louis groans loudly as he forces his limbs to move, getting up to grab his guitar from its case. He looks over at the mess of granola wrappers scattering the floor and surrounding his beanbag and decides to ignore it, dragging himself to his room. 

Louis sits on the edge of his bed for what must be hours, strumming disjointedly on the guitar, desperately trying to think of something, anything, but only turning up with static. He makes a high-pitched whining noise that he wasn’t aware he was capable of and grabs his phone. Thumb flicking through his contacts lazily, Louis sees passing names of people he never talks to. There are a few people he works with at the restaurant as well as Annalise, Liam, Niall, and Zayn. Eventually, his gaze lingers on the one labeled “Wretched Tit”. Harry. Louis’ finger hovers over the name before he locks his phone and puts it down gently on the bed beside him, face down, going back to strumming on the guitar.

He doesn’t last long, though, before he picks the phone back up and opens Harry’s contact. Louis pulls up a new message, struggling to think of what to say. Should he mention Saturday? Some part of him feels like he should apologize for the way he’s acted since Harry started the show, mind flickering with images of Harry sitting huddled in the passenger seat, a dog licking his wounds. But, a larger part of Louis is screaming that the way he treated Harry was justified. Harry was a brat; he took and took and gave all the wrong things in return. Harry is the snake oil that Louis was forced to swallow, bitter and unwanted. So, no. Louis will not apologize. 

Instead, he sends Harry a message, saying “ _Zayn’s doing art this week_ ”. He doesn’t know why he’s even texting Harry, reaching out. His mind feels cottony and his guts still seem to be tangled, looping and knotted in the pit of his chest, his ribs, his stomach. Louis stares at the screen, waiting, waiting for Harry to text him back. Why is it taking so long? It’s been maybe five seconds, which is four seconds longer than Louis wants to wait. He tosses his phone down, letting it bounce across the bed, and goes back to plucking at his guitar, fingers pushing the chords with more force than they should. 

A few more seconds later, his phone dings, interrupting the pale uselessness of his thoughts. He stops the motion of his fingers, reaching, stretching his body across his bed to reach his phone. The screen displays a text from Wretched Tit, simply stating “ _ok._ ” Wow. That’s it? Louis and Harry may never text other than cordial messages regarding the show and Louis may limit their conversations to only necessities, but this time Louis is actually trying to talk to Harry and all he gets in return is “ok”? Doesn’t Harry know that Louis feels like his mind has temporarily stopped working? How inconsiderate. 

Louis sighs, staring down at his phone for an indiscernible amount of time, fingers running and streaking across the polished wood of his guitar. Every motion feels dragging and reluctant. He finally finds it in himself to type out “ _Can’t think of theme. Any ideas?_ ” quickly pressing send before he can change his mind. He stares down at the screen, his message sitting there staring back at him. If anything, he feels worse, his previously tangled guts constricting, cutting each other to bits. Louis throws his offending phone across the room, watching as it hits the wall with enough force to leave a small chip in the paint. He stares at the chip, a white fleck in the tan expanse of the wall. His phone dings.

Letting out a frustrated groan, Louis falls back onto his bed, guitar laying across his belly. He doesn’t want to look at his phone, doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Why did he think texting Harry would be a good idea? Louis happily ignores it, closing his eyes as his body melts and mends with the duvet, but then it dings again. And again. When the fourth message comes through, he finally pulls himself off the bed to retrieve the source of the constant dinging. He sits on his knees against the wall, feet curled up underneath him, hair falling in his eyes as his head tips forward, reading Wretched Tit’s replies. 

“ _Seriously?_ ”  
“ _Are you really asking? Do you really want my opinion?_ ”  
“ _You could do a theme about going to the zoo?_ ”  
“ _Or about a carnival? Or something about cotton candy?_ ”

Louis reads the messages slowly, eyes distracted by the tiny dots that keep popping up and disappearing underneath them, an indicator of Harry indecisively typing another message. He reads them and then rereads them. Louis couldn’t possibly have a whole show about cotton candy and he doesn’t even know what he would say about carnivals, considering he’s never actually been to one. His mind tosses around the idea of zoos, animals in cages, people standing and gawking, children with sticky fingers and tired feet. Zoos could work. He could make something of zoos. Louis stares at his phone a while longer, trying to think of a song, trying to think of something to say to Harry. The dots continue to appear and disappear, Harry still hesitant and grasping.

Louis’ mind whirrs, searching for a beat, a melody, words and sentences, searching for something to make of Harry’s suggestion. His finger begins to tap along the back of his phone case, short fingernail dully thumping against the hard plastic. _Warbling monkeys behind steel frames, howling in their own form of a game. They’re telling you they’re glad you came because they’re here whether sunshine or rain. Faces pressed against the glass, watching the monkeys watching you. Every day is new, seeing the different humans taking trips and turns at the zoo_. Louis hums out the words softly along with his own unsteady, homemade beat. He sits for a minute after singing them before nodding to himself and finally replying to Harry. “ _Going with zoo_ ,” he sends hastily, getting up and grabbing at his guitar, mind swimming and forming shapes and images into words and lyrics. He gets to work, losing himself in creation and, for the first time that day, not thinking about the jumble of his insides. 

Louis’ fingers ache, worn out and numb from his constant strumming, playing this tune and that, figuring out the right beat and rhythm for the song. He’s come up with multiple versions, tried different chords and different words, different pitches and hooks. Louis looks at his phone for the first time since he began writing the song. Liam should be home any minute, and Louis feels a shock to his system when he realizes how long he’s been working on this. Louis rubs at his eyes, pressing down until he sees stars. He sets his phone down and stands up, stretching his hands upward, reaching for the popcorned ceiling, grasping at shadows. His back cracks and pops, vertebrae moving and resettling after being hunched over his guitar for so long. 

Louis wanders sluggishly into the kitchen and fills a glass with water, downing the glass in a few gulps. He refills the glass, takes a few swallows, and carries it back to his room, tummy sloshing around with every step. He grabs his phone again, opening up the messaging app to ask Liam about dinner, but his messenger already has a little red bubble on it, indicating an awaiting text. Louis’ eyebrows furrow as he opens it, having not heard his phone ding while he was writing earlier, and they furrow further when he sees that it’s from Harry. “ _Do you need any help writing? :)_ ” Oh god, he must have sent it right when Louis was beginning to write, which was almost three hours ago. Louis’ water-filled stomach drops at the sight of the hopeful smiley face, the thought of Harry reaching out and asking Louis if he wanted him to help with the song. He wouldn’t have, but he still feels bad that Harry probably thinks he just ignored him after taking his idea for this week’s theme. How did he get to this point in his life? Louis wants to bang his head against the wall. He wants to be able to go back to simply hating every fiber of Harry’s being. It was easier like that. His fingers move along the screen, sending back a severely delayed reply. “ _sorry, just saw this. I already finished_ ,” Louis sends it and clenches his phone tightly in his hand, plastic digging into his skin, knuckles white, before he sends another message, typing out “ _thank you, Harry_ ,” and throwing his phone onto his bed, forgetting about texting Liam. He goes into the living room, flinging himself down onto the beanbag, surrounded in his scattered wrappers from earlier, and grabs Scoobert, filling the bowl and letting his lighter spark and flicker.

Liam should be home soon enough. 

***

Louis walks off the set, guitar in hand. He goes to his corner, putting his guitar away as usual, but what isn’t usual is that he hears Harry’s feet walking up to him, boots clacking on the cement floor. His back stiffens, hands and movements and heart going still. Harry stops behind him, clearing his throat, making Louis’ annoyance ping. He always clears his throat when he wants Louis’ attention, not wanting to bother talking to him unless he knows he’s got Louis’ eyes on him. It’s apparently very important to Harry that Louis watches as every word comes out of his mouth. 

Louis stands straight and turns to face him, raising an eyebrow. Harry’s wide eyes stare back at him; his wide shoulders are draped in silk and his mouth twitches with the beginnings of a small smile, timid and contorted, unsure of whether it belongs. “I’m glad you used my idea for the theme,” Harry says, mouth finally deciding to curve gently. His hair is less curly today, falling in shallow waves across his shoulders. Louis’ hair is windblown from the drive to the studio this morning, his t-shirt slightly wrinkled from where it was crumpled in his drawer. He feels like a bit of a mess as he looks at Harry with his shining shirt and hair. 

“Well, thanks for the suggestion. I was really stuck on it,” Louis says, trying to smile a little. The smile feels awkward and forced so he lets it drop. He’s not mad at Harry, but everything feels weird, he’s tired, and it seems pointless to act like he’s happy while talking to Harry when it’s still so early in the morning. They stare at each other as the seconds tick by. Louis glances around, shifting and uncomfortable at Harry’s lack of response. Harry just stands there, staring at Louis with his brow furrowed as it almost always is when he interacts with Louis. Not knowing what to do or how to respond to Harry’s silence, Louis turns back around and continues getting is things together. He’s grabbing his phone out of his backpack when Harry clears his throat again. Louis resists rolling his eyes. He stands up, slinging his bag onto his shoulder before he turns to face Harry again. 

Harry’s still standing there, not having moved a muscle. Louis raises both of his eyebrows impatiently. Why is Harry acting so fucking weird? Louis doesn’t have time for this shit when there’s a nap awaiting him at home. “Yes, Harry?” Louis grabs his guitar case, ready to walk out the door. 

“Umm, well, I liked that you asked me, and I just thought it would be nice if you asked me about that kind of stuff more often,” Harry finally speaks, rubbing the toe of his boot on the floor, hands twisted behind his back. “I don’t want to step on your toes. I know this is your show, but I’d really like to do more with it.” 

Louis doesn’t know what to say. No. Obviously, Louis doesn’t want Harry to have any more of the show than he already does. It’s _his_ show and part of Louis wants to scream that at Harry, shove it into his ears and into his head. Except, another part of Louis, a new, freshly burgeoning part of Louis feels bad for him. Harry just wants so badly to be involved, wants the show to be his too. Louis doesn’t understand why Harry had to choose Pure Imagination to latch onto, what made him decide that it was Louis’ life he wanted to invade and consume. Louis runs his free hand over his face, closing his eyes. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I don’t know what to say, Harry,” he says, opening his eyes to see as disappointment flashes across Harry’s. “I…I told you last week about how I feel when it comes to the show. I don’t really know what to give you that you haven’t already taken.” It comes out weak, tired, the way Louis feels. 

Harry’s face falls even more, eyes down-cast, shoulders sagging. He stands there, silent and sulking. Louis is about to just walk away when Harry says something. “I don’t want to take anything. I just want to be a part of it,” He says it to the floor, his voice full of the same quiet insecurity that was there in Louis’ car last week. Louis feels some vital organ inside of him shrivel up and die. 

He doesn’t know what to do, less so now than he did a few seconds ago. Louis might not be Harry’s biggest fan but he also isn’t a complete asshole, and the sight of Harry looking so small and confined, beaten and cowering, makes him relent. “I can’t promise anything. Maybe I can try to text you more often? I’ll start to keep you a bit more in the loop on what I’m thinking for the week. Nothing big, but I’ll work on letting you in on the chaos of my mind a bit more.” Louis struggles to look at Harry as he says it, finding his gaze fixed on the person filming on set just behind Harry’s left ear. 

“That would be great, Louis. Honestly. I would appreciate that a lot,” Harry says, voice earnest and jumping. Louis still doesn’t look at him as he nods along. 

“No promises, but I’ll try. It’s not something I’m used to.”

“Thank you,” Harry’s voice is softer as he expresses his gratitude again. Louis nods once more in acknowledgement and begins to walk away, out the door. He glances back as he pushes into the blaring sunlight. Harry is putting his guitar in its case, smiling to himself. Louis drives home with the radio turned off; the static is overwhelming today.


	2. Butterflies

Sunlight is streaming in through the windows, bathing everything in a golden hue. The minimal, pale blue decorations look almost white as they’re illuminated; the black tablecloths soak in the attention, warm to the touch. Everything is alive, buzzing and animated. Customers laugh and talk, the sun shining and gleaming off of their jewelry. They guzzle wine, the dark liquid sliding off their bleached teeth, never leaving a mark as they get enough of an afternoon buzz to last them until dinner. Louis rushes around them all, refilling glasses, taking orders, smiling and dazzling the masses. The music plays softly but loud enough to be heard over the lunch crowd; the sound of glasses colliding in toasts, the roar of voices, and the clacking of shoes on the hardwood mingle and shift through the gently sung lyrics. “ _C'est le temps de l'amour, le temps des copains, et de l'aventure. Quand le temps va et vient, on ne pense à rien malgré ses blessures_.” 

Louis hums along as he walks from table to table to kitchen to table. His coworkers do the same, all of them running around in their dress clothes and black aprons, rotating in and out as if perfectly orchestrated. Louis’ taking his table their appetizers, the plate warm in his bare hand, when Avery walks past him and quickly says “21 is seated,” before walking into the kitchen, black hair tied in a short ponytail and swishing with every step. Louis smiles as he gives his table their food and nods encouragingly as they ask for more wine. He takes notice of how badly his back is aching while he walks over to his newly seated table, resisting the urge to stretch and crack his joints in the middle of the busy restaurant. He gets closer to the table, approaching a girl with light brown hair who sits with her back to him, arms moving as she talks to the person in front of her. Louis plasters on a smile, showing off as many teeth as he can, and lifts his head up and pushes his shoulders back. And stops. His posture crumbles, smile dropping off his face, and he stares not knowing what to do. It’s Harry. Harry’s here and he’s the one talking to the girl at Louis’ table. Harry’s at Louis’ table. Fuck.

Louis’ body doesn’t know what to do, which way to move. Harry hasn’t seen him yet, so he’s very tempted to just go to Avery or Johanna or any other waiter in this restaurant and ask them to please, please just take this table for him, just this once. Louis glances around, searching for his coworkers, only to find them all hustling around, busy and engrossed in their work, taking orders and running food. Louis feels dread fill his stomach, heavy and sagging, as he takes a deep breath. Everyone’s too busy to bother—of course Harry had to choose to come to lunch at the busiest time possible, the asshole—so Louis forces his smile again, not managing to show as many teeth this time around, and pulls his spine up, standing straight and poised, ready to rumble. He drags himself, step by step, to the table; the floor feels like tar under his polished shoes, begging and pulling at his ankles to stop, to not go any further. Louis wishes the floor really was tar so that he would at least have an excuse for not doing his job. Unfortunately the world doesn’t bend at Louis’ will, and he’s standing over their table, neither Harry nor the girl noticing his presence. 

Louis goes to clear his throat, but is reminded of Harry and stops himself. “Hello! Welcome to Le Copain. My name is Louis and I’ll be your server this afternoon.” Harry’s head snaps up from his menu, eyes wide, bulging. Louis continues, ignoring the other boy’s gaze. “Can I get you something to drink?”

The girl doesn’t look up from her menu as she says, “Water with no lemon, light on the ice.” Her kind tone his contrasted by the purposeful refusal to look at Louis. Louis tries not to let it get to him. 

He forces himself to look over at Harry, his mind debating whether or not he should act like he knows him. He obviously does and Harry obviously knows that Louis knows him, but a part of Louis really wants to have temporary amnesia. “And for you?” 

Harry is still staring at him, eyes intense and mouth gaping. “Louis?!” His voice is higher than usual and his eyebrows furrow. God, here he goes again with his perpetually furrowed eyebrow. Louis wants to scream and run away. 

“Yes, hello Harry. Can I get you something to drink?” Louis pushes the words out of his mouth, teeth still clenched in a smile. He sees the girl look up at Harry out of the corner of his eye when Louis says his name. He’s surprised something got her nose out of the menu. 

“You work here?” Harry completely ignores the question. Louis wants to sigh but holds it in. Why must the worst moment of his life be prolonged like this? Why is the world so cruel? 

“Yes, Harry. I’ve told you before that I have another job. Now, can I get you something to drink today or do you need time to look over your options?” 

Harry stares at Louis with his brow converged between his eyes, unmoving. “Umm, I’ll have a water with four lemon slices and two packets of Splenda,” He says, voice slow, still unsure. Harry seems to be even more caught off guard by this situation than Louis does. It makes Louis feel marginally better. 

“Okay, I’ll get that right out,” Louis says, making to turn around, but he stops himself, adding, “I’m not squeezing your lemons for you, by the way,” before walking away. He didn’t realize his mistake, though, until he hears Harry exclaim a very loud, far too loud, “Holy shit,” and the sound of a chair being pushed back too hard on the wooden floors. 

Louis walks faster towards the kitchen as he hears the girl with Harry saying, “Harry, what they hell?” He walks faster and he’s almost there, sees the glowing door of sanctuary, but it’s snatched right from under his feet as he feels a large hand come and circle around his bicep, hold tight. He spins around to see Harry staring at him with alarm. 

“Harry, let go of me, you brute,” Louis huffs, yanking his arm out of Harry’s grasp. 

“You. You were my waiter last time I was here. That night,” Harry lets the words rush out of his mouth, tumbling and flooding. “Louis, oh God, why didn’t you ever tell me? I’m so sorry. That night was a mess and I…” Harry continues to let his words pour out, but Louis pushes his hand against Harry’s chest, stopping him. 

“Yes, I was your waiter. It’s not a big deal, Harry. I don’t understand the fuss,” Louis says, lying between his teeth. Well, he really doesn’t understand why Harry is acting this way. It’s horrible and awkward and embarrassing for Louis in this situation, but why is Harry acting like the end of the world just arrived? 

“No, Louis. I just…I’m sorry. That night I had just gotten off the plane and left my wallet in my bag. I tipped you almost nothing and I’m so sorry. I felt so bad. I didn’t know it was you, but I always felt so bad. I was so embarrassed I kind of just ran away, and it was a complete mess,” Harry’s mouth spews the words in a stream, letting them hit Louis and crumple at his feet. It feels weird to have Harry try so hard to explain himself, but Louis doesn’t really have the time to sit here and listen to his rambling excuses right now. He realizes that he never moved his hand from Harry’s chest, had left it mindlessly laying against the warmth of his thin t-shirt, but he doesn’t let his mind linger on that. Giving Harry another small push, Louis pulls his hand away, letting it fall to his side.

“Harry, honestly don’t worry about it. I knew who you were the first second I saw you at that bar with Niall. It’s not like this is some kind of grand reveal. I’ve gotten over it. It’s all water under the bridge,” Louis didn’t realize how much he means it until he says it. He’s not mad about how fucking horrendous Harry was the first time they met. It’s a miracle. It’s also relieving in a way, some of the heaviness in his stomach dissipating. “Now, go sit down at your table with your friend. I’ll be back shortly with your drinks, okay? I’ve got to go. I have other tables that are waiting.”

Harry sighs and nods, turning around and making his way through the mass of tables and people. Louis runs a hand over his face; his mind buzzes and whirrs as he gathers their drinks as well as a new bottle of wine and entrees for his other tables, balancing them on a large tray. He may or may not linger at his other tables, dropping off their food and refilling their wine glasses, chatting and making old ladies giggle into their palms. It’s when he only has two glasses of water, a side of lemon slices, and two Splenda packets left on his tray that he has no choice and begins to meander over to the table. Neither Harry nor the girl look up at Louis when he arrives, though their conversation comes to a halt. Louis holds in a sigh and sets their drinks down, tucking the empty tray under his arm. 

“What can I get you two to eat today?” Louis presses his arm down, shoving the tray uncomfortably far into his side. He bites his tongue as the two at the table keep their heads down, eyes leveled at the menu, never glancing up as they order. Louis runs over their orders in his head, over and over while he gathers their menus and walks towards the kitchen. They refuse to look at him and don’t bother to speak to him in any way other than to tell him exactly how he can serve them, no thank you or even the slightest indication from Harry that he knows and works with Louis. It’s almost surreal. Louis doesn’t normally have people act this way towards him unless they’re fairly old and stuck up, bank accounts full and grandchildren spoiled. He definitely doesn’t have people he _knows_ treat him like this. It’s infuriating. It’s teeth grinding and side pinches and bitten tongues. That’s always what Harry is. He crawls under Louis’ skin and prods and pokes at the muscle and tissue there, but the worst part is that he doesn’t do it to be mean, he’s just genuinely a spoiled brat. 

The restaurant is almost cleared out by the time Harry and his friend are done eating, the lunch rush over and the wine-drunk ladies going out to buy new pearls or whatever it is they do with their inordinate amounts of money and time. Louis thinks that if he had that much money, he would probably go out and buy pearls every afternoon as well. His infamous table of two sits staring at their phones, flicking at their screens lazily. Collecting their plates, Louis asks, “Would you be interested in any desserts today?” He receives a simple, “No. We’ll be on one check,” from the girl, who unsurprisingly doesn’t look away from whatever app she’s scrolling through. Louis wastes no time bringing them their one check, setting the enclosed bill on their table. 

“Thank you for dining at Le Copain. Please come back to see us soon,” Louis says, relief in his voice, glad to not only be finished with Harry and his atrocious dining manners but also his shift. He’s been here, on his feet, killing his back for six hours, having opened for brunch. He’s ready to get the hell out of here. Which is exactly what he’s doing, turning on his heel, when Harry calls out his name. Of motherfucking course this is the time Harry decides he finally wants to begin treating Louis like a human again.

Louis turns back around. He finds that Harry is actually meeting his eye so he raises his eyebrows at him questioningly. He resists tapping his foot on the floor. 

“I’ll see you on Saturday,” Harry says, his eyes digging into Louis skull. Louis is sure that Harry is only looking at him like that in order to examine his brain. He doesn’t appreciate the intrusion. 

“Yeah,” Louis replies, about to turn away from him yet again when Harry clears his throat. Louis wants to punch him in that goddamn throat. 

“You’ll text me, yeah? You said you’d text me, but you haven’t really texted me much these past two weeks,” Harry says it quietly, glancing around like he’s worried someone might overhear. His friend is still sitting on her phone, scrolling with boredom. Louis doesn’t think she’s even aware that he and Harry are talking. 

Louis does feel a pang of guilt at Harry’s question. He hasn’t exactly held up to his promise. Except it wasn’t really a promise. It was explicitly not a promise, but Louis still feels bad. He really did intend to try and include Harry more. However, the pang of guilt is mostly washed out by the overwhelming annoyance he feels towards Harry for the past hour of being his waiter. “Yeah, sure. I’ll try,” Louis replies, finally breaking away from the table. He collects the paid checks from other tables, counting up his tips and putting the correct amounts into the register. 

When he looks back over, Harry is gone, the bill sitting on its side at the edge of the table. Louis walks over, feeling unease at the prospect of what Harry left as a tip. How awkward would it be to face him after receiving another shitty tip, especially since they actually know each other this time? He grabs the leather bound case, seeing the green tips of money sticking out, and opens it. $200. Harry left $200 for a bill that wasn’t even a full $60. Harry left him almost $150 as a tip. What. A. Motherfucker. 

Louis thought that a small tip would be awkward, but this overly large tip is worse. It feel gross and dirty and a lot like pity. Harry couldn’t bear to make himself thank Louis the entire time he was waiting on him. He literally looked at Louis twice the entire time, and now he’s left him an abnormally large tip? Who does he think he is? Louis want to punch him, not even in a specified place, just generally all over. Multiple punches to multiple places. What a bullshit thing to do. Louis quickly rings it up in the register and storms into the back room, snatching his phone from his bag. He’s half way through typing a million word rant to Harry about how much of a dick he is when he decides it’s not worth it. He erases it all, deciding to send three middle finger emojis and leave it at that. 

He slams the door harder than he means to when he enters the apartment. Liam is in the kitchen, out of sight, but Louis hears his voice drift around the cabinets. “Louis?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Louis replies. Who else would it be?

Liam walks out of the kitchen, eyes glazed with a bowl of cereal in his hands. “You okay? You seem angry. Don’t you normally like Wednesday shifts?” Liam slurps on his cereal, Lucky Charms crunching along with the words. He’s wearing his khaki shorts, but he’s shirtless, which isn’t unusual for Liam. He always tears off his polo when he gets home. He says it’s too constricting to smoke in, that it “dampens the experience”. 

“Harry was at the restaurant today, and guess who got to be his waiter,” Louis says, kicking off his shoes and walking over to the beanbags. Liam follows him, cereal still crunching loudly in his mouth. 

“Aw, shit. Was he a dick again? Did he at least tip better?”

Louis flings himself down, letting the cushion of the bag puff up around him, engulfing his body. “I don’t even know. He was a dick, but he was also acting just… really strange. And the worst part is that he tipped really well today. Like way too much. Who fucking does that?” 

Liam sits gently in the other beanbag, making sure not to slosh his milk. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“No! Absolutely not! It was completely out of pity, which makes things even more horrible and awkward. He’s literally the worst and he’s ruining my life,” Louis complains loudly, smashing a fist into the beanbag. The impact is just absorbed, his hand now in its own little fist-shaped crevice. 

“I’m sorry. Want to watch TV?” Liam is staring at Louis, blinking slowly as he holds his cereal bowl up to his lips, getting ready to drink the milk. It always disgusts Louis when he drinks the milk. 

Louis sighs deeply, from the pit of his soul, letting out all of the sighs he suppressed today at work. “Yeah, okay.”

Liam slurps his milk for what feels like 3 years before grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. Louis spends the rest of the day getting high and watching a Dog Whisperer marathon. By the time he goes to bed, his limbs feel like jelly and his mind is blissfully void of thoughts about Harry Styles. 

***

The next day, Louis drives to work with the music blasting, wind rushing through his hair, voice loud and brash as he sings along. He decided when he woke up this morning that he was going to have a good day and things are looking up. He has a midday shift, allowing him to go in late and leave before closing, which makes his chances of actually being happy much higher, especially since he and Liam have plans to work on the show when he gets home. The theme this week is bees, and it’s been fun making increasingly strange and obnoxious buzzing sounds while writing the song. He and Liam had worked on it Monday night, getting high and running around the apartment, buzzing loudly, and squirting honey from the bottle directly into their mouths. It was sticky and weird and freeing, and Louis’ guitar still has honey residue on its side that catches on his skin every time he grazes it. He smiles to himself as he puts his things in the back room, tying his apron tightly around his middle. He ambles through the kitchen, waving at some of the chefs, their white outfits blotched with yellow and green mystery splatters. 

Avery is clocking out as Louis walks up, his black hair down today, falling around his face, stick-straight and shining. He turns towards Louis once he finishes, facing him while Louis clocks in. “Oh, Louis, you’ve got some guy out there.”

“What are you talking about?” Louis asks distractedly, eyes on the buttons in front of him, mind flying with the bees from flower to flower. 

“He’s been here for over an hour, just sitting there drinking lemon water and waiting on you,” Avery says, his voice isn’t deep but it’s gravelly and rough, sandpaper on skin. It gets Louis’ attention. 

His heart stops. “What?”

Avery looks at him with concern. “Do we need to get Annalise out there to run him away? Is he like a stalker or something?” Avery stands, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. He and Louis have never been close, but they’ve both worked at the restaurant for years, forming tenuous bonds over snobby customers and too many hours on the clock. 

“Does he have long, curly hair? Wearing some kind of shirt with a horrible print on it?” Louis asks as Avery nods his head. 

“He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt, yeah.”

Louis sighs. So much for having a good day. “It’s fine. I know him, unfortunately,” Louis replies, rolling his eyes and contemplating banging his head on the wall. Avery nods again before walking to the back room. Louis whispers, “What the fuck, Harry,” to himself before shouldering his way out of the kitchen door and into the dining area. He sees Harry immediately, sitting at a table by himself with his face held close to his phone. A glass of ice water sits in front of him, condensation running down the side in rivulets; a small pile of squeezed lemon slices sits over to the side next to a collection of Splenda packets. The fire beginning in Louis’ chest burns brighter at the thought of Avery having to stir them in for Harry. 

Harry looks up when Louis approaches, but Louis doesn’t give him the time to say anything. “Harry, what the fuck are you doing here? You were here yesterday.”

Harry levels him with an unfazed look. “Why did you send me three middle finger emojis?” H e sounds defensive, his arms folded across his chest where his Hawaiian shirt lays unbuttoned. 

Louis thinks he may explode, body inflating, popping like a spent balloon. “Seriously?! Is that why you’re here?”

Harry blinks up at him, mouth in a straight line. “Yes.”

Louis is at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing as his mind grasps at straws. “Why did you leave me such a big tip?” Countering him with a question, nice one. 

Harry’s eyes nearly bug out of his head at that, voice high as he exclaims, “That’s what you’re mad about?” Louis nods tersely in response, eyes glaring down at Harry. Harry runs a hand through his hair, groaning, “Louis, I don’t know what to do with you.” Louis starts at that. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Harry doesn’t have to do anything with him, maybe just give him some space and shut up every once in a while. 

Before Louis can voice this out loud, Harry continues, “I’ve been trying so hard since…” Harry sighs again. “I’ve tried so hard to get you to, not even like me, really, just stop being so angry with me all the time.” Louis feels the anger sitting in his chest reluctantly begin to fizzle at that. Harry’s always so good at making Louis feel bad for disliking him. It’s really fucking annoying. 

“I thought yesterday I could make up for the horrible way I tipped you the first time we met by tipping more, and somehow that still managed to make you mad. I don’t understand, Louis,” Harry says, staring up at him, eyes searching, imploring. “I don’t understand you.”

Louis feels all of the fight drain out of his body, everything running down his spine, out of his toes, making a mess of a puddle on the floor. He glances around. The restaurant is in a lull, only Harry and a stray table of businessmen that his coworker is waiting on sit in the dining area, so Louis walks around to the empty chair across from Harry and sits down gruffly. Harry looks surprised but not unpleased. 

“Harry, that tip was unnecessary. It felt like pity,” Louis says, ignoring Harry’s squawk of, “It wasn’t”. He continues, fingers tracing patterns on the soft tablecloth, “And, on top of that, I was already pretty mad because of the way you treated me yesterday. It was the exact same way you treated me when I was first your waiter, except this time your friend did it too. So, basically, double bad treatment.”

“What?” Harry’s eyebrows begin to furrow. It’s comforting to Louis in a way, the furrow of his eyebrows is familiar, known territory. “How did I mistreat you?” He sounds so genuinely confused that Louis almost wants to drop the topic. 

“Harry, you’re extremely rude as a customer. I don’t know if you’re like that with all of your waiters or if it’s just me that gets the special treatment, but…” Louis shrugs his shoulders, looking down at the black tabletop. 

“What? What am I doing wrong?” Louis looks up at him just to raise an eyebrow. “Seriously, Louis what am I doing?” 

Louis sighs, running a hand over his face. “I don’t…” Louis cuts himself off, standing abruptly. Harry stares at him with alarm, his eyebrows no longer furrowed but arched high above his eyes as they trace Louis’ movements, hazy green and alert. “Okay, so if I were to ask you what you wanted to order how would you respond?”

Harry stares at Louis, confused and unmoving. Louis folds his arms and taps his foot noisily on the wooden floor. Annalise would have his head if she saw how he was acting in front of a customer, but Louis doesn’t think about that, all of his attention focused on showing the spoiled rich kid in front of him why he makes Louis want to rip out his hair. After a prolonged stare down, Harry finally breaks, sighing and turning his body away from the impatient set of eyes fixed on him. Louis tries not to pride himself too much on his small victory of will. Harry doesn’t have a menu in front of him to stare at, so he grips the straw in his drink, twirling it distractingly. He opens his mouth, ordering, eyes purposively averted. Louis doesn’t fully listen to the menu item he lists off, hearing but inattentive; his mind and eyes are distracted by the stirring of Harry’s drink, the way straw twirls between his index finger and thumb, shifting and mixing the lemon and water, ice tinkling against the glass with each motion. Louis’ attention snaps back to Harry only after he hears him stop talking, his eyes still averted and fingers still restlessly fidgeting with the straw. 

“Why don’t you look at me?” The motion of Harry’s fingers stops.

He meets Louis’ eyes, body angling to face him. His whole demeanor shifts, turning from whatever dickbag he is as a customer to the milder form of dickbag he is as just Harry. 

“Well, you’re the server.” Harry says it as if Louis’ an idiot. Louis wonders if Harry’s expecting him to be surprised. Maybe Harry will be surprised when Louis puts him in a chokehold. Louis doesn’t respond, just stares at Harry, willing himself not to attack. Eventually, Harry’s expression turns to one of confusion. “What?”

“Harry, that’s so fucked up,” Louis controls his voice but still lets the anger seep through, dark red and trembling. “You should fucking have the decency to at least look your waiter in the eye and actually speak to them instead of giving them orders aimed at the tabletop. Do you know how dehumanizing that feels?” 

Harry bites his lip, his posture shrinking down marginally. “That’s what our dad always did. I guess Gemma and I never really realized it was rude?” Harry tries to explain. Louis tries not to roll his eyes. How do you go your whole life and not realize that shit like that is rude?

“Well, it is. It’s gross. Don’t do that anymore,” Louis says, voice hard. He breathes deeply, briefly trying to put himself in Harry’s position but quickly deciding that he doesn’t really care. “Also, who is Gemma?”

Harry seems to grow at that, shoulders blooming and back straightening. “She’s my sister. She was here with me yesterday,” He says, voice filled with a lightness Louis hasn’t really heard while talking to Harry before. 

“That makes sense then,” Louis says, thinking about the same cold behavior he received from her. It’s a family affair. Louis looks at Harry, who’s looking at him.

“She came to visit me from New York,” Harry says just as Louis says, “Well, I’ll go put in your order.” The air suddenly feels tense, unbreathable. Harry sits with is mouth open, poised to continue whatever little conversation they had left, but Louis turns around and marches his way back to the kitchen. He doesn’t remember what Harry had ordered, but figures it doesn’t really matter. He rings in his favorite item off the menu, assuming it’ll be good enough for Harry, and makes small chit chat with one of the busboys until the food’s ready. Normally he’d be upset about not having any more tables. Less tables, less tips, but right now he’s relieved he doesn’t have to hover around the dining area, around Harry. 

He brings out the plate, fish splattered with various sauces and creams, and the pitcher of water, walking slowly to Harry’s table. He sets it down wordlessly, making Harry nearly jump out of his seat. Louis smiles at the annoyance on Harry’s face from the surprise as he refills his glass. 

“Louis, this isn’t what I ordered,” Harry’s voice interrupts the gentle humming in Louis’ head. He looks exasperated, eyes searching to meet Louis’. Louis feels a weird twist of pleasure in the fact that Harry’s even looking at him, speaking to him like a normal person instead of giving short commands. 

“I know,” Louis replies, keeping his voice breezy and unbothered. 

“Seriously? Why are you so…?”

Louis glares sharply at Harry. “Don’t finish that sentence. I got you my favorite dish instead. Figured you would like it,” Louis says, cutting him off. He leaves out the part about him not actually listening to Harry’s order in the first place. 

Harry stares down at the food with confusion before looking back up at Louis. “This is your favorite?” 

“Yes, that is literally what I just said.” Louis folds his arms across his chest again, popping his hip out as he waits for Harry to shut up and try it. Harry just sits staring at Louis instead of moving, so Louis huffs, his arm flailing in the direction of the table. “Aren’t you going to try it?”

Harry stares a second longer before actually getting out his silverware and taking a bite. He makes sure to look up at Louis before saying anything. “This is actually really good, Louis.”

“I know. Don’t doubt me,” Louis returns. Harry stares at Louis again and Louis begins to regret telling him that he should look at his waiters. It’s weird having Harry’s eyes set so intently on him. It’s unsettling and Louis decides to walk away, letting Harry eat his food while Louis makes jokes in the kitchen and has a lemon juggling competition with the head chef. He almost forgets Harry’s still sitting out there, but remembers as his lemons fall to the floor for the tenth time. “Shit,” he curses before nearly running out of the kitchen door and into the dining area. Harry’s sitting on his phone, head in his hand. The sun is setting outside, deep orange light filling the restaurant and bathing Harry in watercolor. 

Louis grabs his check and speed walks his way to Harry’s table. “Harry, I’m so sorry for making you wait. I got…distracted ,” Louis rushes out, setting the bill on the table and grasping at Harry’s empty plate. He turns, wasting no time to return the plate to the kitchen when Harry’s hand shoots out to stop him, grabbing the corner of his apron. 

“Wait!” Harry’s voice comes out loud, louder than he meant it to considering his pink-tinged cheeks. He quickly drops his hand from the fabric around Louis’ waist. “Louis, wait. What do I tip you? I don’t really know what to do in this situation,” Harry’s eyes are muddled as he gazes up at him. 

“I don’t either to be honest,” Louis says, using his free hand to straighten the crease Harry’s grip made in his apron. “Just, I don’t know, a normal amount? Maybe even less today since I left you waiting for so long.”

“A normal amount. Alright, okay. I can do that,” Harry mumbles to himself, staring down at the bill. 

Louis watches him for a second, weird and out of place. This whole situation is beyond uncomfortable. It feels wooden and splintering. “Just don’t worry about it. I promise no matter what you tip, I won’t get mad,” Louis says, watching Harry’s body relax at the words. “Except, nothing over 25%. Even that seems too high. I’m not charity, just treat me like a normal waiter.”

Harry nods a few times before taking out his wallet. Louis takes that as his cue to leave, bringing the plate into the kitchen and setting it down with the few other dirty dishes. When he walks back out, Harry is gone. He sighs a sigh of relief. He begins to grab the bill, but stops. He doesn’t really want to see what’s inside, so he leaves it alone on the table. When people begin to trickle in the door for dinner, it comes as gift, something distracting to make the time go faster. He doesn’t grab Harry’s check until much later, ringing it up with two other tables. He tries not to pay attention to the amount left, not wanting to think about it, but it’s impossible. Exactly 25% to the penny. Louis finds himself smiling at the register, shaking his head at the cash in his hand. 

 

***

The bar is dimly lit, sparse, yellowed light glowing in halos above tables, deep wooden walls, floors, and furniture absorbing and contorting those few overhead lights. The room is thick with the smell of sweat and bitter beer, the walls lined with campy pirate decorations, sails and boats, compasses and Krakens. It’s obvious Niall chose the bar this time, it fits all the criteria for his favorite drinking places, and Louis isn’t complaining. This grungy, shadowy hole-in-the-wall is a million times better than that chrome and glass funhouse Harry picked on their last bar night all of those months ago. Louis looks around, squinting at the faces masked in darkness sitting at the bar and in the secluded booths. It is Harry’s bright orange shirt that catches his eye, the silken button up etched with abstract shapes. Harry’s sitting in a booth over in the back corner of the room. The rest of the group is obscured by the walls, Harry’s shirt standing out like a beacon in the fog, lone and gesturing. Louis feels a smile creep across his face without permission at the sight. 

This past week has been…different. Harry walked into the restaurant the day after that first day of what Louis has come to call “The Lessons” towards the end of Louis’ shift. He insisted on a table in Louis’ section even though Louis was supposed to be off the clock in thirty minutes. He sat, staring up at Louis as Louis squinted down at him. “Why are you here again? It’s getting creepy,” He said, suspicious and judging. 

“I’ve decided I need to try everything on the menu at least once. It’s my goal,” Harry replied, gazing at Louis, smirk on his face. 

“You’re a freak, Harry Styles,” Louis said taking his order. He corrected Harry’s dining manners a few times, small corrections here and there.

A “Stop staring so much, serial killer,” met with a squawk and an “I thought eye contact was good?” A reply of “Not when you look like you’re sizing up my skin for your next Halloween costume,” met with a scoff. Back and forth biting yet playful conversation dusted in the golden sunlight that streamed through the windows, broken up by Louis running from table to table. It was Louis clocking out on time, but staying after to finish waiting on Harry and receiving an exact 25% tip to the last cent. 

It was repeated by Harry stopping by every day after that as well, staying true to his defense of reaching his goal. He ordered something new and Louis corrected something else he did. It mostly had evolved into Louis pointing things out jokingly, jesting at Harry’s fork-holding technique and choice of drink. It was late Friday as Louis was about to kick Harry out so the restaurant could close when he brought it up. 

“You never say ‘Thank you’ and it’s pretty fucking rude,” He said, dropping the bill off on the table. Harry stirred his empty drink absentmindedly, looking up at Louis with a pinched brow. 

“What do you mean? Why would I thank you?” He asked.

Louis stared at his straight face, no sign of a joke, and nearly screamed as he pushed the words out of his mouth, “Because I’m your waiter! I am fetching you things and I deserve the people I wait on to fucking thank me for it!”

“But it’s your job, why would you need people to show you gratitude?” Louis saw flames and cities burning. He imagined setting Harry on fire right then and there, lighting a match and never looking back. He slapped Harry upside the head. Harry face turned into a pout as he rubbed at the offended spot. It made Louis want to slap him again.

He grit his teeth and regulated his breathing. “Because I’m a human being, Harry. I’m not some kind of servant. I am a human being providing you with a goddamn service, and that’s extremely fucking disgusting that you think otherwise.” Louis walked away after, not coming back until he knew Harry was gone. 

He planned to hold it against him. He walked into the studio the next day with the full intention of letting the whole week of progress with Harry drop and going back to full on hating his guts. Except, as soon as he set foot in the building, Harry was there waiting, pouncing on him. 

“I don’t want to talk, Harry,” Louis said, pushing past him. 

“Louis, stop,” Harry said, grabbing at Louis’ arm. “I wanted to apologize. I thought about what you said and you were right. I grew up differently and I feel like there is so much that I’m relearning. Please be patient with me. I’m sorry.” His voice was pleading as he held onto Louis’ bicep.

Louis stared at Harry for a while before tugging his arm out of his grip. “Yeah, whatever, fuck off,” He said, a hint of a smile threatening to bloom on his face. Louis went on to sing a song about bees. Harry taught a lesson on how to decrystallize honey. They sat next to each other on a big red couch, singing in unison, knees and words bumping, teeth shining.

That was yesterday and Louis wants to hold a grudge, wants to take Harry down kicking and screaming, but he can’t find it in himself. He can’t even find it in himself to taper down the small smile that graces his face. He approaches the booth unnoticed, Harry’s attention engrossed in whoever he’s talking to. He’s almost in view of the others. He could reach out and touch Harry’s shoulder if he stretched a little bit, so he does. Quickly reaching out, he grasps Harry’s shoulder, letting out a “Boo!” Harry jumps, letting out a small yelp; his eyes are wide and one of his hands flies out to smack Louis’ hand off his shoulder. Louis steps forward, laughing loudly, a hand on his stomach as Niall yells out a loud “Louis!” completely ignoring Harry’s distress. 

“Hey, Niall,” Louis says choppily, splintered by his giggles. Niall’s hair is down, laying across his forehead, resting on the rim of his askew glasses. His button up shirt is creased and wrinkled, sleeves rolled up to his elbow and buttons undone, revealing his chest. Louis looks over to Zayn, who sits tucked in the corner at Niall’s side, his all black outfit almost blending in with the shadows on the booth. His hair has grown but stays pulled back in a ponytail. Zayn nods at Louis, acknowledging him with a slight tilt of his lips. Louis nods back, smiling. “So what’re you all drinking?” He asks, glancing around at the empty glasses on the table. 

“It’s a beer night, Tomlinson! Can ya go get us refills? Put it on my tab. I’ll have a Guinness,” Niall shouts, leaning forward. He must be a couple of beers in considering the smile on his face and the way his accent sounds more pronounced, words elongating and squeezing together. 

“Yeah, sure. Zayn, what’re you having?” Louis asks, leaning against the wooden table, fingers tapping along the edges. 

“I’m drinking Stella tonight , Tomlinson,” He replies, words dragging, smile on his face. He’s absolutely drunk and Louis grins back at him. 

Louis looks over at Harry. He’s looking back, eyes sparking. “I’ll go with you. Help you carry drinks,” Harry says, moving to amble out of the booth, limbs unfolding and stretching. 

They step in unison as they make their way to the bar. Louis can feel the heat from Harry’s arm as it swings close to his own, making sure they don’t touch. “Why are you so late?” Harry asks after a short silence. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, saturated with the noise of the surrounding conversation from other tables and the quite buzz of classic rock playing in the background, but Louis is glad Harry broke it anyway. 

“I thought Liam was going to come, so I was waiting for him to get off work.”

“Why isn’t he here?” Louis looks up at Harry to see his brows pinched together. He smirks at him. 

“He decided he was too tired,” Louis replies as they reach the bar. It’s lined with older, gruff men sitting and drinking dark beers and chatting with the bartender, an equally old and gruff man, a large beard and broad shoulders making him look as if he should be out chopping down a tree somewhere. The lumberjack walks over, deep voice booming over the noise of the busy bar as he asks, “What can I get for you?” The warm smile on his face counteracts his burly demeanor and Louis finds it in himself to smile back as he orders. 

“We need one Guinness, a Stella, a…” Louis trails off, looking at Harry to insert his drink of choice.

“Make it two Stellas,” Harry says, staring at Louis instead of the bartender.

Louis rolls his eyes at him before turning back to look the lumberjack in the eye. “And an appletini. We’re on Horan’s tab,” He adds, the bartender nodding before setting off to fill their drinks. He looks back to Harry. “I’ve told you it’s rude to pointedly avoid looking at people who are providing you with a service.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m trying.”

Louis’ heart jumps at that, which is concerning. His heart shouldn’t be doing gymnastics. It hasn’t even taken a lesson before. He doesn’t reply, just nods and watches the lumberjack mix in his vodka. Harry must be watching it too because not a second later he chimes in, “Why did you order that? Niall said that it’s beer night.”

Louis looks over at Harry, arching an eyebrow. “Because, Harry, I do what I want,” Louis says. Harry shakes his head at him, chuckling quietly. Louis is in the process of sticking out his tongue at Harry when the bartender sets the drinks in front of him. He turns to him and smiles, saying “Thank you” before grabbing at the tray. Except Harry knocks his hands aside, grabbing the tray for himself, saying his own thank you to the lumberjack. The annoyance Louis feels about the douche knocking his hands aside is somewhat masked by the pride he feels in Harry actually thanking the bartender. He doesn’t let Harry know that, though, and makes a point of telling him just how annoying his tray-grabbing was the entire walk back to their table. 

They fall into the booth and fall into conversation easily, the four of them talking and laughing, drinking their drinks. Niall ridicules Louis for not getting beer, but ends up ordering himself an appletini when they get refills. Zayn has begun to doze off in the corner of the booth, always such a sleepy drunk. Louis finished off his last appletini a little over an hour ago and has since downed two glasses of water. The rest of the bar is beginning to thin out, the music becoming more audible with the diminishing of voices and conversation. Have they really been here that long? It feels like Louis just walked through the door. He looks over at Niall who’s chatting quietly with a sleep-addled Zayn, the two of them lost in whispers and tangled fingers. He glances over at Harry beside him. The taller boy is sitting in his silken shirt, sending a text on his phone; the bright orange color dimmed in the poor lighting and shade of the booth.

It’s been weird, tonight, sitting next to him and having conversations. They’ve joked and talked and mumbled teasing insults all night, and Louis has surprisingly not wanted to bash Harry’s head in more than a handful of times.

Harry looks up from his phone, making brief eye contact with Louis before he yawns, face scrunching up and eyes closing. Louis smiles, gaze turning to the abstract triangles on his shirt sleeve. Louis has bumped into him enough times tonight to understand why he always wears those godawful shirts. They’re soft as fuck. He reaches out, tracing a finger along the sleeve, unthinking, feeling the warmth and silkiness of the fabric beneath his fingertip. Harry startles at the touch but then leans into it, arm pressing heavily on Louis’ finger for a few lingering seconds before Louis pulls his hand away. He turns to face the other two, their heads still bowed towards each other. 

“I think it’s my time to head out. It’s getting late,” Louis says. Both heads turn towards him, faces blissfully drunk and tinged pink. 

“Alright. We’re actually about to call a taxi ourselves. See you next week,” Niall says, words partially slurred, accent heavy on his lips. 

Louis turns back to Harry, nudging him with his hand. “Budge up,” He says, pushing harder until Harry finally scoots out of the booth, standing. Louis climbs out behind him.

“I think I’m going to go as well,” Harry says, running a hand through his hair. It’s become increasingly tangled through the night. Louis wonders if it’ll hurt when he brushes out all of the knots later. 

“Bye,” Niall says drowsily, tilting his head back to lean against the wall. 

Louis is about to begin his walk to the door when Zayn abruptly jolts forward, hair falling loose from his ponytail and into his face. He throws a hand out onto the table, letting it fall with a thump as he cracks out, “Wait, Louis!” He clears his throat before continuing. “Louis, meant to ask you. Can I do art this week?”

“Yeah, sure. Of course,” Louis replies easily, but then Harry turns to him with his furrowed face on. 

“Wait, he did art two weeks ago. It’s not time for another art segment,” Harry says. His shoulders slouch forward but his voice is strong. It’s something Louis has noticed he does when he prepares himself for an argument: his posture drops, enclosing on himself in some sort of defense while his voice becomes strong and demanding, resilient. Harry’s a weird one. 

Before Louis can reply, though, Niall speaks up. “Zayn can do art this week,” His voice is steely, unwilling to let down, no room for a fight. It’s unusual for Niall, and Louis raises his eyebrow at him, eyes wide. 

“Sorry, Harry. I just really need to be creative this week. Hope you understand,” Zayn adds. At least his voice sounds sympathetic. Except, Harry apparently doesn’t understand. He huffs out a breath before spinning on his heel and marching through the room. Louis looks at Zayn and Niall with confusion before quickly following his path out the door. It’s dark outside, the moon hidden behind thick, black clouds. Louis feels disoriented by the abrupt change in lighting, the loud noise and stench of the bar being replaced by the still quiet of the night and fresh air. 

Harry is walking down the sidewalk, storming along the concrete with thunderclaps following his wake. Louis almost doesn’t want to go after him, just wants to let him stomp away in a fit, angry and brooding. Why would Louis care about talking to him anyway? Since when did Louis want to make Harry feel better? He doesn’t know and he’s not sure he likes this new development. He goes after him anyway, his feet moving rapidly, almost in a run, to catch up to Harry’s shrinking figure. 

“Harry!” Louis calls. “Harry, please stop.” He doesn’t stop. “I said hold on, you big dumpster baby!” Louis calls, practically jogging to reach him at this point. He almost plows straight through Harry when he actually listens, stopping in his tracks. Harry looks at him with his customary eyebrow furrow, a constant mixture between confused and displeased. It’s nice to know some things never change. 

“What?” He demands. He folds his arms across his silken shirt. His skin his covered in goose bumps, the chilled night air blowing softly through the palm trees and roughly on their exposed skin. Louis shivers as a gust of wind lashes at his face. 

“Why are you so mad?” Louis asks.

“Because! Why wouldn’t I be mad? It’s my segment of the show, and he took it to do his art just two weeks ago. Now he wants to take it again! Just because he feels he needs to be creative this week?! It’s not his show!” Harry says in a rush, voice contained yet booming in Louis’ eardrums. He’s angry. Properly angry. Louis thinks the only time he’s seen him like this was in those first weeks of him working on the show when he told Louis he had a stick up his ass. Those were simpler times. 

“Now you know how I feel,” Louis tries to joke, but it comes out weak. He doesn’t know what to say, not good at comforting. Harry smirks reluctantly at the comment anyway, ducking his head a little. “Trust me, Harry. I get where you’re coming from. But, why do you care so much? I mean, not to say you don’t care about the show, but why does a week or two matter so much to you?” Louis stares at Harry as Harry stares back. He seems to think about it for a while, lips pursed slightly. The wind has blown a strand of Harry’s hair into his face and Louis has to resist the urge to push it behind his ear for him while he ponders. He tries to justify the urge by telling himself that the hair hanging in Harry’s face annoys him. The excuse only works marginally.

“I’ve told you how I came here from New York because I was looking for something. I was bored and everything just felt so…pointless. I needed something substantial because it felt like the world was just made of shiny, expensive things that had large price tags but no real value,” Harry eventually says, breaking the silence; his voice is softer now, but it still holds an edge of fury. He looks at Louis as he speaks, his shoulders hunched, but not in the stance he usually assumes when he wants to argue. It’s something different, something vulnerable. “My dad told me about some of the companies he had down here, so I left. When I met Niall, he told me about the show. I’ve always loved kids, so I thought it would be a good fit. That first day when I came to the studio, I saw the way you acted with the Talent of the Week and I heard your songs, and I just knew that I wanted to be a part of it.” Harry shifts his weight from foot to foot, his face has calmed but it still is serious, unhappy. Louis’ fingertips feel cold, so he tucks them in the creases of his elbows. 

“I’ve grown to love the show so much. It feels real and tangible. It matters. I know I haven’t worked on it for nearly as long as you have, and I know that it can’t possibly mean to me what it’s meant to you. But, it still means a fucking lot. I don’t really have much in L.A. I’m just by myself with my cat, but I do have a tiny part of this show. I don’t like when that tiny part I do have gets taken away,” Harry finishes, his voice having grown louder, less controlled at the end. Louis doesn’t know what to say. He understands but at the same time he doesn’t. Lost in this speechless void, he struggles to make his mouth work, to make his brain form words and coherent sentences, anything that can be comforting or reassuring. Harry stares at him, his eyes ablaze, waiting for a response. As he’s met with only silence, silence and a breeze surrounding his heart-torn speech, he turns, beginning to walk away. 

“Help me write the song this week,” is what Louis finds himself whispering to Harry’s turned back, broad shoulders caving in in their casual manner. He surprises himself with it, and surprises Harry too, judging by the speed at which he turns back around, facing Louis with his mouth agape. 

Louis swallows, swallows down his racing thoughts, screaming that this is a mistake. “You can come over tomorrow. I’m off work, and Liam and I were planning on writing the song for next week’s episode. You can help, if you want,” Louis says, words slightly jumbled and spilling out too fast. 

Harry holds his breath, keeping it trapped in his lungs before exhaling it all in a wave. “Yes,” He says, beginning to crack a smile. His eyebrows aren’t furrowed for once. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay, cool,” Louis says. He feels awkward now, not knowing where to go from here. He’s walking on new territory, fragile ground. It’s weird trying to be nice to Harry, actually caring about when he’s angry or sad, but he promises himself that this is just a one-time thing. And he tells Harry the same, saying, “It’s just this week. Don’t get a big head.”

Harry’s smile broadens at the words, growing to show more and more teeth. Louis wonders if he could count his molars from here. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Louis,” He says.

“Just this once,” Louis repeats. He takes two steps backwards, away from Harry. It’s time for him to go home before he begins asking the lampposts to be the Talent of the Week. 

Harry, apparently isn’t finished talking. His voice fans across Louis’ face even with the extra distance, laughing, “Anyway, what makes you think I don’t already have a big head?”

“Oh, I know you already do, but if it gets much bigger, you’ll not be able to fit through most doors. That might cause a problem, so I’m really just looking out for you.”

Harry snorts, shaking his head. He looks into Louis’ eyes, staring. The chill outside is beginning to get worse as the night drifts on. The summer is officially becoming fall and Louis is sad to see it go. “Thank you, I appreciate it,” Harry says his voice growing quieter with every word. Soon no sound will be coming out at all and he’ll just keep moving his lips. 

“I’ve got to get home now. It’s almost 3am.” Louis takes another two steps, backing away. Harry continues to stare at him, unmoving. He doesn’t say anything in response for a minute. It looks like he wants to say something, letting it sit on the tip of his tongue, the roof of his mouth. Both of them breathe in the oxygen, letting the seconds tick by. Whatever he was going to say is swallowed down.

“Drive safely, Louis. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Harry finally pushes out. The smile on his face is genuine, even though the words are masks. Louis nods in response and turns around, walking to his car. His own shoes are silent against the concrete, but he can hear Harry’s clicking as he walks in the other direction. He’ll see him tomorrow. 

***

Louis’ alarm goes off, blaring at 6 o’clock, and he wants hit it repeatedly with a large sledgehammer. Not a regular hammer, it has to be a sledgehammer just so the alarm clock knows how much he hates it. He throws his hand at it until he somehow presses a button, silencing the monstrosity. He lays there a few minutes, wishing for a quick and painless death, before forcing himself to sit up. Grabbing sleepily at his phone, Louis’ eyes are temporarily blinded by the sudden brightness of the screen contrasting his pitch-black room. He already has a text from Harry asking what time he should come over and what the address is. “What the fuck,” Louis whispers into the empty room, expecting the shadows to answer in return. He stares at the phone, eyes squinting at the white background and brows furrowed at the small letters, wondering why Harry sent him this message at, apparently 5am. In the end, he tells him to come any time after the show airs and gives him the address. Struggling to move, he gets up, making his trip to the bathroom quick before hobbling his way into the living room and throwing himself down one of the beanbags. 

It’s not long after Louis turns on the TV, getting ready for the airing of Pure Imagination, that Liam stumbles from his room. He must not have an early lesson today considering he doesn’t have his work uniform on. His baggy pajama pants sag on his hips, his shirtless chest creased with thin red lines from his sheets. He still has a little drool crusted on his chin, but Louis doesn’t mention it. He’s a good person like that. Liam tosses himself down on the other beanbag, garbled noises coming out of his mouth as he settles comfortably. 

“What was that, Li?” 

Liam smacks his mouth a few times, blinking blearily at the TV. “Said, ‘ave you eaten yet?” He repeats, scratching at his shoulder. He makes a clicking noise with his tongue a few times before he stops moving, staring at the screen with his mouth open. 

It’s too early and Louis can’t decide if it’s funny or gross how much of a mess Liam is right now. He just ignores it instead. “No, just got up a minute ago. Might need a nap later,” He says. They fall silent as the show starts, Louis sitting on the red couch, a smile on his face. 

Louis wakes up to a loud knocking on the door. He nearly jumps out of his skin and shits his pants at the same time. He looks over to see a sleeping Liam sprawled out on the beanbag next to him. He hopes Liam isn’t missing work. He also hopes it isn’t a serial killer at the door. Well, they are knocking, so maybe it’s a polite serial killer. Maybe they’ll gently stab Louis to death, apologizing for every cut. Except, the knocking hasn’t stopped once, a constant stream of pounding. Louis thinks that maybe it’ll be a quick, passionate stabbing instead. That’s always been his favorite kind of stabbing anyway. He smirks to himself as he opens the door, but the smirk falls off his face at the sight of Harry. Shit. How did he manage to forget that Harry was coming over?

“You here to kill me?” Louis asks, voice raspy and slow, dragged down by sleep and morning. 

Harry’s brow furrows, eyes narrowing. “Not today. We’re working on the song. You said I could come over after the show?” He walks into Louis’ apartment, not waiting for invitation. Maybe if Louis hadn’t just woken up from his impromptu nap he would say something about manners or Harry being an asswipe. 

“Yeah, yeah. I remember. Sorry, accidentally fell asleep,” Louis says. His speech is slightly less slurred, more awake. He’s proud of pulling himself together so fast. He’s also proud of himself for wearing his good pajamas last night; his sweat pants without the stains and his favorite Buffy the Vampire Slayer t-shirt are sure to impress. Except, it’s Harry and he doesn’t need or want to impress Harry. Harry can fuck off, honestly. Louis was taking a nap. 

Harry stands there with his back to Louis, silent, glancing around the apartment briefly before turning to face him expectantly. He’s wearing a simple, white t-shirt and Louis is thankful. He doesn’t think he’d be able to handle seeing one of Harry’s obnoxious patterns in the sanctity of his own home. Harry just stands there, staring at Louis like he wants him to do something, but Louis has no idea what he wants from him. He’s even moved to fold his arms across his chest. It’s weird having Harry in his apartment, the two of them both treading unexplored territory, unsure of hidden pitfalls and anthills. Louis fights off the tingling of annoyance that’s threatening to grow and raises his eyebrows at Harry before walking around him and into the kitchen. He reaches into his cabinet, grabbing two granola bars. He stops himself before closing the cabinet door.

“Do you want a granola bar?” He asks, speaking loud enough for Harry to hear him but not too loud in fear of waking up a still-sleeping Liam. 

Instead of an answer, he hears Harry walk around the wall and into the kitchen. He takes his time, leaning his hip against the counter before he answers. “What kind are they?”

“Chocolate chip. What else?” 

Harry nods his head in approval. “Yeah, sure.”

“One or two?” 

“How many are you having?”

“Two,” Louis says, holding out his own two granola bars, waving them in the air as to show Harry that they exist. 

“I’ll have two then,” Harry decides, swatting half-heartedly at the granola bars being waved in his face. Louis grabs the extra granola, tossing them over to Harry. He starts trying to open his own wrappers, gazing at the grooved edge with intent as he hears Harry opening his wrapper. He fumbles with it, the thin plastic crinkling but not tearing under the pressure of his fingers. 

“Motherfucking wrappers,” He mumbles, becoming increasingly aggressive with the offending object. He’s about to begin banging the granola bar against the counter when he hears Harry clear his throat, making him stop abruptly. “Yes?” Louis glances up at Harry with his eyebrows raised. Can’t Harry see that Louis is in the middle of something?

“Do you need some help?” Harry is grinning, amused by the sight of a frustrated Louis going wild on a granola bar wrapper. Louis huffs out a sigh before silently handing both bars over, allowing Harry to easily split open the plastic on both. 

“I swear to God these things are out for me. It’s like some great conspiracy to always make it impossible for me, and only me, to open the damn granola bars,” Louis says, viciously biting into granola. He and Harry stand in the kitchen, no words exchanged, just the sound of their chewing and the crinkling of plastic. Harry’s halfway done with his second one when he breaks the semi-tense silence between them. 

“I need water,” He croaks out, mouth full and voice muffled; his face twists in discomfort, probably from the lack of ability to swallow down the clotted chocolate that lines his throat. An unexpected laugh bursts out of Louis, causing chewed up granola to spray out of his mouth, hitting Harry and flecking across the kitchen floor. 

“Shit,” Louis chokes out, spraying more food. Harry stares at him with wide eyes. He glances down at shirt, speckled with the contents of Louis’ mouth, and back up, the pure shock in his eyes never dwindling. 

They stand in a balance, neither moving, neither blinking. No one dares to breathe, until Harry clears his throat again. “So, um, can I get some water?” He says it seriously, innocently trying to ignore the mess Louis made, but it just spurs more laughter out of Louis. He begins laughing at the surreal situation they’re in, the earliness of the morning, the silence between them as they stand awkwardly eating granola bars in his kitchen, Harry’s struggle with the adhesive properties of their breakfast. He laughs so hard his stomach hurts, gripping at the countertop. Harry’s begun to laugh as well, quiet and unsure at first, but with Louis’ loud, persistent tummy-laughs, Harry’s begin to grow too until he’s laughing full force, bent over, mouth open to reveal his chewed food and chocolate tongue. It makes Louis laugh harder, and it takes a while before he is able to compose himself. As his chuckles die down, so do Harry’s, and Louis sighs contentedly at the sudden burst of happiness that filled the kitchen, glowing and warm, laughter scrubbing the air clean of the uncertainty and tension. He rubs at his sore belly and walks over to the other cabinet, grabbing two glasses.

“Alright, some water,” He says, turning on the sink and filling up both glasses. He turns around, handing one to Harry. 

Harry looks at the glass wearily. “You don’t have bottled water?”

What the fuck. Seriously? Louis slaps Harry lightly on the back of the head as he walks past him, heading for the living room now that they’ve both finished their food and their laughter. “No, and we don’t have lemons and Splenda here either. I think you’ll live,” He says to Harry as he trails behind him. Liam has apparently woken up, now sitting up in his beanbag with the bong and his little baggie sitting in front of him. 

He looks up as Louis and Harry approach. “Hey,” He mumbles before looking back down at the bright green glass. 

“Liam, you’ve met Harry. He’s here to help us with the song this week. Zayn’s taking an extra art day,” Louis says, plopping himself down onto the floor between the beanbags. He motions for Harry to sit on the unoccupied beanbag. Harry looks at it with his brow furrowed before slowly situating himself on the cushion, sinking into the fabric and struggling slightly to find a position that’s comfortable. 

“We’ve met before? I’ve heard Louis talk about you, but I don’t remember meeting.” Harry’s finally sitting up straight, glass of half-sipped water clasped in his hands. 

Liam picks up the bong, cradling it gently in his hand as he flicks the lighter, letting the water bubble before inhaling deeply. “Yeah, at the bar,” He says, eyes closed as he exhales the smoke. A small smile sits on his lips as he opens his eyes to look at Harry. He holds the bong out to him with care. “Wanna smokel on the Doobert ?” That’s the nicest gesture anyone could receive from Liam. Harry should feel honored.

Instead, he stares at him, confused. “What the hell is a Doobert ?” Louis snorts a laugh. Harry’s eyebrows only crease further. 

“That’s our bong. Its name is Scoobert Doobert ,” Liam explains as he gently pets its side. At Harry’s lack of action he brings the bong back to his mouth, taking another hit. 

Louis reaches for it now, taking it into his hands once Liam is finished. “Give me some of the Doo ,” He says, laughingly. 

“But, Louis aren’t we going to write?” Harry asks as Louis breathes in the smoke. 

Louis exhales, looking at Harry with a smile. “This is when I’m at my most creative.” Liam makes grabby hands at the bong, so Louis hands it back. “You in a rush, Harry?”

“No,” Harry answers quickly, sipping on his water. 

“You want a hit?”

Harry stares at Louis for a second, deliberating. “Yeah, sure,” He decides on, placing his water between his legs and reaching his hands out for Scoobert. 

After they pass the bong back and forth, letting it ash, Harry and Liam sprawl out on their backs on the beanbags. Louis eventually ambles up to grab his guitar from his room, bringing it into the living room and flopping his body back down on the floor. “Alright, Harry. Songs. Music. Words,” Louis says, staring at the ceiling. The floor feels hard under his back, pressing and unforgiving on the already tired muscles. 

“What’s the theme?” 

“Mountains.” 

“Mountains are good. I like mountains,” Liam adds. He’s still holding the bong to his chest delicately even though they’ve finished using it. 

“Hmm, me too, Liam. They’re very tall,” Louis says. The ceiling is shifting. Maybe the people upstairs are walking too hard. Maybe they’re dancing. 

“That’s true,” Harry says. Louis wonders if Harry knows that the people upstairs are dancing.

Louis begins to strum the tune of what the people upstairs are probably dancing to, keeping the guitar in beat with the movement of the ceiling. It’s Liam that begins to sing first, but Harry doesn’t take long to add his own lyrics to the mix. They sing back and forth, the three of them, giggling intermittently at what one another says, letting the syncopated rhythm of the guitar mix and flow with their words, moving in time with the ceiling. Time flows as well, the warm, golden sunshine that glows through the small window dimming, turning orange and setting the apartment ablaze. Louis stops playing the guitar; they had all stopped coming up with lyrics about thirty minutes ago. Liam is dozing off to sleep, but Harry lays awake, still spread eagle on the beanbag. Louis doesn’t think he’s moved once since he laid down.

“Do you want to order some Indian takeout?” Louis asks, tilting his head towards Harry. He sees Harry’s head loll over to the side in order to look at him. 

“I’m glad you don’t hate me anymore, Louis. I’m glad we’re friends now,” Harry says. Which. That’s not what Louis was expecting. His mind reels, unsure of what to say. He hadn’t really considered Harry a friend. Sure, he doesn’t hate him anymore and they may get along now, able to laugh and have conversations. They may have their restaurant lessons and Louis may actually somewhat enjoy Harry’s presence every once in a while, but he didn’t really think of them as friends. Are they? If so, when the fuck did Louis let this happen? 

“Uh,” Louis answers eloquently. Luckily, he’s saved by a drowsy Liam, who seems to have stumbled into awareness at the earlier mention of food. 

“Takeout, Lou. Want it,” Liam slurs, half-asleep with drool pooling at the corner of his mouth.

Harry turns his head back to face the ceiling, looking away from Louis. “Yeah, Indian is good,” He says. Louis stares at the ceiling too, searching but unable to detect any movement. The people upstairs must have stopped dancing. 

Outside the window is black, only the sparse, dotted streetlights provide any illumination. The TV is on, playing some cartoon on mute as the two of them put the finishing touches on the song. Liam escaped to his room a while after they ate their Indian food, cradling Scoobert and mumbling about a nap. Louis normally doesn’t manage to complete the song in one day, but since Harry is here, they’ve been working hard to get it done. Louis plucks at the guitar strings haphazardly, Harry watching his fingers play out some distorted melody. 

“I can teach you how to play guitar sometime, if you’d want,” He says, looking at Louis. He’s being kind, genuine, no hint of a brag or condescending tone. It makes Louis smile.

“Nah, I already know how to play,” He replies, grinning lazily as he continues to pluck strings. 

Harry laughs, low and whispered, breathe dancing around his teeth, splaying across his lips. “Yeah I can tell.”

Louis smiles brighter, nodding at Harry. They sit silently for a few minutes, the sound of guitar filling the space. A notebook with messy scrawl lays on the floor in front of Louis, the aftermath of a productive yet mellow day. Harry clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. He’s probably ready to leave, escape this small, unassuming apartment that is Louis’ life and go back to the cream-colored brick that is his own. “This week we’re going to cover Misty Mountain Hop. It’s Zeppelin; you think you can learn it in time?” Louis looks over at Harry, brows raised, a little bit of challenge in his eyes. 

Harry blinks slowly, smirking. “Yeah, I should be alright.” He’s a smug bastard. Louis laughs. Harry shows off more of his teeth, smile widening, letting a chuckle of his own escape. The laughter fades and Harry clears his throat again. “I should go. I need to feed my cat,” He says, but he doesn’t move to get up, just stares at where Louis’ fingers have grown still on the strings. 

“Alright,” Louis says, setting his guitar down and getting up. Harry sits in the beanbag, staring up blankly at him, so Louis reaches a hand down in offering. Harry grabs it, quick and warm as Louis pulls him up off the enveloping cushion. They walk to the door together, quiet and calm, comfortable and waiting. 

“Thanks for inviting me to do the song this week. I know that’s your thing,” Harry says as he reaches for the door. He doesn’t look at Louis, just stares at some random spot on the floor. Louis bumps his hand into Harry’s arm.

“It was no problem. It was actually pretty nice. I think we came up with something good,” Louis responds, causing Harry to look up from the carpet and into his eyes. 

“Yeah? So, I could help from now on?” Harry asks, smiling. 

Louis laughs out, “Hell no.” Harry laughs too. “No, the songs are my bit. I get to keep that.” Harry smiles and nods; he knew Louis would never give over control of his song writing, but he can’t help the tinge of sadness of a lost, unknown hope. Louis sees it, sees the vague, uncalled for disappointment. “Maybe on art weeks, though. Maybe on those weeks you can help,” Louis clenches out between his teeth. Why is he saying this? Why is he purposively giving away bits and pieces of his show? To Harry, of all people? Why does he feel strangely okay with this? 

Harry’s resulting smile, bright eyes and dimpled cheeks, makes Louis push those thoughts away. “Thanks, Lou,” Harry says. He must have picked the nickname up from Liam earlier. Louis normally refuses to let people call him that, doesn’t really like nicknames, but he doesn’t mention it. He lets it slide as Harry slides out the door, calling back a quick “See you at the restaurant tomorrow” before disappearing down the hallway. Louis shakes his head at the retreating figure of the person he used to hate, wondering when the fuck he started caring, when the fuck they became friends. 

***

Harry stays true to his word, showing up at the restaurant every day that Louis works that week and the week after that and the week after that. He always arrives with a crinkle between his brows and a hint of a smile on his lips. The hostesses have learned his name, knowing to always sit him in Louis’ section. Annalise has even brought it up once, calling him to her office after closing. 

“Who is that man who’s here every time you work?” She sat in her chair, nails clicking on the keyboard in front of her, eyes fixed on Louis. 

Louis let out a sigh, body leaning heavily against the closed door behind him. “That’s Harry Styles. He’s a friend.”

“Styles? Good family. Anyway, I can tell you two are friends or else I would’ve gotten onto you long ago about the casual manner in which you treat him,” She said, her red hair glinting, sharp in the office lighting. 

“Am I in trouble?” Louis held his breath, letting his lungs scream for release before pushing it out. 

Annalise studied him with cutting eyes. “No. You’ve done a good, professional job with your other tables, even when he is here.”

Louis closed his eyes for a second, letting his muscles relax. “So, is there something else you needed?”

“No, just checking in with you. I like to know what is happening in the restaurant and this has been going on for months now,” She said, looking away from Louis and back to her computer screen. Louis nodded and turned, making to open her office door when her voice stopped him in his tracks. “I also was checking to make sure he wasn’t your boyfriend because if you bring a boyfriend in here, Tomlinson, then you’d better introduce him to me.”

Louis almost broke his neck as he whipped back around, shaking his head vigorously. “No, no. He’s just a friend. He’s only here because he’s trying everything on the menu. I actually hated him at first, but then it was kind of okay and he…”

She cut him off with a smile and the flick of her wrist. “You’re free to go now, Louis,” She said, voice calm and demanding. Louis walked out, stunned. He spent the rest of the night smoking and drinking with Liam, trying to make himself laugh off Annalise’s words. 

He managed to shake it, falling back into his usual pattern of interaction. Last week was another art week, so Harry had come over to write again. Except this time, Liam had a surf lesson in the morning, leaving Louis and Harry to create by themselves. Everything almost burnt to the ground when Harry showed up with a beanbag, dark blue and corduroy.

“What the fuck, Harry?”

“I bought another beanbag. This way we can all sit on one.”

“You can’t just _buy_ us another beanbag! Harry, you can’t just force a beanbag on us because you want it and then expect it to be okay.” Louis could feel his heart pummeling his chest, skin growing too tight. 

“Well, what do you want me to do with it?” 

Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t punch his throat. Don’t scream at him. Louis heaved a sigh. “Just put it over with the other two.”

Harry smiled victoriously. “Don’t fucking think for a fucking second that I’m happy with this shit,” Louis clarified, resisting the urge to stomp his foot.

It went well after that, after Louis calmed down and Harry apologized, time flowing, smoke seeping out of mouths, mixed with softly sung words and the broken beat of the acoustic guitar. Everything faded and burst apart naturally, laughter sparking in between sentences and food shared messily; two bodies spread out on beanbags, skin brushing every so often. It was calm and easy, and it brought a strange comfort, a warmth sitting lightly in Louis’ chest at this burgeoned friendship.

Now, Louis sits on the concrete floor of the set, waiting. He’s first to arrive as usual, but this morning there was surprisingly less traffic than usual, getting him to work a good fifteen minutes earlier. He even got here before some of the crew, walking in a few steps ahead of the cameraman with the handlebar mustache. The mustache man looks tired today. Louis should buy him coffee sometime. He should buy himself coffee sometime, he thinks, tipping his head back to lean against the wall. He doesn’t know how long he’s been laying like that, half-dozing, when the door closes, catching his attention and pulling him back into awareness. It’s Harry, dressed in his black pea coat that he’s pulled out now that it’s fall. Louis has told him multiple times that L.A. doesn’t really get cold enough to require the thick wool of a pea coat, but Harry refuses to listen. The heather grey shirt poking out underneath his jacket looks soft, and Louis fully intends on touching the fabric once he gets closer. 

Harry immediately looks over at him once he walks in, knowing that Louis is always in the corner he’s claimed as his own. He sends a small wave at Harry and Harry smiles back in return, walking over to him. 

“Look what the horse dragged in,” Louis says as Harry gets closer.

“I think it’s supposed to be ‘look what the cat dragged in’, Lou.” Harry leans against the wall beside him, making Louis look up, straining his neck to see his face. 

“I know. Just felt like changing it up,” Louis shrugs. Harry shrugs back and slides down the wall, sitting next to him on the hard concrete.

“Alright.” Louis goes back to leaning his head against the wall with his eyes closed. He feels Harry reach over and tug lightly on a string hanging off the seam of Louis’ pants. The string doesn’t budge, so Harry resorts to twisting it between his thumb and forefinger without thought, just something to do. Louis counts every twist, every movement, focusing on it to keep from drifting to sleep. 

“Hey, Louis,” Harry says, his voice low, quiet enough to only ripple the surface of the calm that surrounds them, not loud enough to break it. Louis makes a humming noise in response, opening his eyes and turning his head to face him without lifting it off the wall. Harry’s face is close to his own, also tipped back against the wall, and Louis almost jerks back in surprise, having not noticed their proximity. Harry opens his mouth to continue, but is interrupted by the slamming of the front door. Louis tears his eyes away from Harry’s to look at who came in. 

A little girl with neat, brown braids comes bounding into the room. She looks over, spotting the pair sitting in the corner, eyes widening. “Harry!” She yells, running over to them. Her mother faintly calls out a warning about not running, but it’s ignored as she practically jumps on Harry, giving him a hug. Harry’s face lights up as a surprised laugh bubbles out of him. It’s not the first time a kid has been more excited to meet Harry than Louis. The first time it happened, Louis almost lost it; he wanted to rip out all of Harry’s hair and then rip out his own, a scalp version of a murder-suicide. But, now, he finds himself just smiling on, pleased that the little girl likes the show and is so happy to meet his cohost. 

The little girl releases her death grip on Harry’s neck, stepping back and clapping happily. Her teal dress sways with her as she moves her shoulders side to side. The fabric is firmly pressed, not a crease in sight, and the color compliments her tiny white sneakers, making their unscuffed surface look brighter. “What’s your name?” Harry asks, his face still stretched out in a smile. 

“I’m Lillian! I’m six years old, and I broke my nose last week,” Lillian states, tone giddy, hands, having stopped their clapping, sit clasped in front of her. 

“Did you go to the doctor?” Harry’s question gets a quick “Mhm” in affirmation before the little girl turns to face Louis.

“Hi, Louis!” He smiles really big at him. Louis can see where her nose broke, a slight bend and bulge in the bridge. 

“Hello, Lillian,” Louis laughs out, the enthusiasm of the kids who come on the show is contagious, never failing to put Louis in a good mood. 

“May I give you a hug?” She asks, tipping her chin up and smiling extra big. 

“Of course, love!” Louis holds his arms out, allowing her to come fold herself in them, her tiny arms squeezing her back with all her might. “So, what’s your talent, Lillian?” 

She steps back, out of the hug. “I can burp the alphabet,” She says, excitedly, eyes sparkling.

“Oh, wow! That’s awesome,” Harry jumps in, voice overly animated in the way it always gets when he talks to the kids. Louis smiles at him, watching Harry’s face as he listens to Lillian’s response. Her words skim past Louis, blurred and dimmed, before Louis realizes he’s stopped paying attention, distracted, and focuses back in on the little girl standing before him. Except, the girl is jogging away from them. 

Louis looks back to Harry, finding his attention already on him. “Where is she going?” 

“Her mom has her soda and she needs it to help with the burping.” Louis nods. A crew member calls out “Five minutes until show time!”

Harry stands up and holds his hand out for Louis to grab. He hauls the smaller boy up so that they’re both standing and grabs Louis’ guitar case, opening it and taking out the instrument.

“Excuse me, get your grubby paws off my guitar,” Louis says, grabbing it from Harry and slapping at his tummy. Harry tries to knock Louis’ hand away from his stomach, laughing. “I’ve got a show to film, you monster,” Louis huffs, sticking his tongue out and stalking away from the other boy and onto set. 

Harry plays the guitar next to him, the song upbeat and almost unrecognizable on the acoustic guitar, the strings trying to emulate electronic keys. “ _You pick the insects off of plants, no time to think of consequences_ ,” Louis sings, smiling at the camera. “ _Control yourself, take only what you need from it. A family of trees wanting to be haunted_ ,” Harry joins in, their voices mingling in the space between them. Louis glances over at Harry, smiling. Harry must notice because he looks over too. “ _Memories fade like looking through a fogged mirror_.” Harry picked the song this week. He had begged really, saying that he had wanted to play it since he joined the show. Louis only gave in and allowed it because this week is a random week, no theme to link the segments together. The mustache man calls “Cut!” and Louis nudges Harry with his elbow. 

“I can’t believe you taught them how to knit today,” Louis says, laughing as he stands up. Harry stands up with him, smiling.

“Knitting is a good skill to have.” 

“I didn’t even know you could knit. Origami, knitting, what’s next? Biochemistry?” Harry shoves at Louis’ shoulder and Louis shoves back. They both let out breathy giggles at as they walk over to Louis’ corner. It’s somewhat become Harry’s too, evident by his pea coat thrown across Louis’ belongings. 

Harry picks it up as soon as they get to the corner so that Louis can put his guitar away. Louis stands back up, in the process of looping his arms through his backpack straps. “Do you want to go surfing Monday?” 

Harry looks surprised by the question, eyebrows shooting up from their resting place. “Um, yeah sure,” He answers, voice a mix of excitement and confusion. 

“Cool. Liam says it’s supposed to be great weather for it and that usually this is the time of year where the rich people scamper off, no longer on vacation,” Louis says, starting to walk towards the door. Harry follows along beside him, a constant puppy. 

“Alright. I do have to warn you, although I can knit and fold paper, I’ve never been surfing before.”

“That’s okay. I can teach you.”

“You’re good at it?” They’ve reached Louis’ car. Harry’s is parked one spot over, the fancy black Range Rover he got after his motorcycle gave out sitting and shining in the sunlight. His car has air conditioning and Louis is only a little bitter. 

“No, I’m absolutely horrible. It’ll be fun,” Louis smiles up at Harry and Harry smiles back. Louis climbs into his small car, the carpeted seats warm and prickling against his skin. 

***

Louis picks at an orange peel as he stands in his kitchen, the orange long since eaten. He’s wearing his purple and blue paisley swim suit that Liam got him as a joke on his birthday. Joke’s on Liam though because Louis genuinely likes it. His plain black tank top doesn’t do much for warmth, his arms breaking out in goose bumps as they’re exposed to the drafty apartment. He makes a mental note to check the thermostat when he gets home. His phone begins to blare some generic ringtone, making him jump. He hastily snatches it up, trying to end the jarring noise.

“Why did you call me?” Louis answers.

“You told me to tell you when I got here,” Harry replies, defending his choice of communication. 

“You could’ve just texted me. Who calls people anymore? Nobody,” He argues as he walks out the door of the apartment, shutting it quietly behind him. 

“Well, I do and I’m somebody. Plus, it’s faster to call. You get immediate response.” Louis presses the button for the elevator. 

“Whatever. You’re the one who always takes forever to respond to texts, anyway,” Louis smiles as he says it. He smiles even more when he hears Harry gasp loudly, offended. 

“I do not! I always text you back within a minute! It’s you who takes forever. I once waited a little over a day to find out what the name of the purple Teletubby is,” Harry scoffs. 

Louis keeps his laughter at bay, throat constricting on the air that threatens to push its way through. “It’s Tinky-Winky.”

“I know that now, thanks! Took you forever to inform me of that a month ago,” Harry argues. His voice is serious. He must care a lot about the Teletubbies.

The elevator dings, the doors opening. Louis walks into the lobby. “He’s gay, you know, Tinky-Winky.”

Louis walks out the door. Harry’s sitting parked in front of the building with the windows down. He looks over at Louis, phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah, well, no one is surprised,” He says into the receiver. Louis’ laughter finally bursts out of him as he ends the phone call. Harry’s staring at him behind his big, white sunglasses that he claims make him look fabulous. He’s laughing too, mouth wide open, stretched at its sides in order to let all of the happiness out.

Louis leans against the side of the car, poking his head through the window. The steel of the vehicle is hot, burning through his thin shirt. “You sure you don’t want me to drive? Our butts are going to be soaking wet and covered with sand on the way back. My car is already shitty, no need to dirty yours up,” Louis says, squinting at Harry. He should’ve brought his sunglasses, but they lay sadly forgotten in the passenger seat of his car. The tragedies of modern life. 

“It’s fine. My seats are leather, so they’re easy to clean. And, I can always go get my floorboards vacuumed.” Harry leans over, opening the door from the inside. Louis sighs, giving in, and opens the door the rest of the way, sliding into the large Range Rover. 

“You’re a rich bitch,” he says.

“I know.”

Music plays as they drive. It’s weird to hear music without the ever-present static of Louis’ old car speakers; Harry’s CD plays clearly through the car, filling the spaces and pressing against the windows. Except it’s weird music, slow and hypnotic, distant voices slurring what sounds like vague formations of words. Louis brings it up obviously—“Harry what the fuck is this fucking noise?” “It is ambiance, Louis”—but to no avail. The sun shines brightly through the windshield, warming Louis’ skin, blinding his eyes. Liam was right: the weather is perfect today, hardly any clouds, sunshine shimmering, reflecting off of every surface. They make a game of the cars that pass by, creating short, one-sentence descriptions of the lives of the people who drive them. A silver van is an axe murderer who is trying to look inconspicuous. The blue Prius is a lady who trains monkeys at the circus. Yellow Volkswagen Beetles don’t have drivers, but they do call for shoulder punches. 

They park the car in an almost empty lot. Apparently, few people go to the beach early Monday mornings in September. They begin their walk to the surf shop Liam works at. They both left their shoes in the car, walking on the sand barefoot. It’s hot on the soles of Louis’ feet, having soaked in the heat of the sun. The wind is blowing timidly, occasionally sending a fresh wave of salty ocean air over them, letting the thick air cover them, sticking to their skin and clothes. 

“Do you come to the beach often?” Harry kicks at the sand in front of him, scattering it. Some of it catches the breeze, flying back into his face. 

Louis snorts as Harry wipes at his mouth, attempting to get the sand off before it coats his tongue. “Nah. I used to a lot more when I first moved in with Liam, but after a while it got old. Don’t know how he comes out here almost every day and doesn’t get tired of it,” Louis answers. He remembers all of those times he’d come out here, laying in the hot sand, letting it cover him, rub at his skin until it was tender. That was when he was waiting for the show to be picked up. He would spend his days working excruciatingly long shifts at the restaurant and any free time was devoted to going to different broadcasting stations, begging, pitching, and explaining. When he didn’t know where to go next or if one that he thought was going to actually say yes turned him down, he’d come to work with Liam and lay on the beach, wishing his body would turn to sand and crumble, spreading out to cover the ground. Louis looks over at Harry, watching as he walks along beside him, eyebrows furrowed at the brightness of the sun, shining strong enough to even deter sunglasses. 

“I used to come out here a lot when things were bad with the show. Well, trying to get the show started, trying to find someone to pick it up. It was kind of a place to lose my head and just float. After Niall called and everything started happening, I didn’t really need the beach anymore, so I don’t come back often.” It feels weird to unnecessarily explain himself to Harry, to talk about himself in a way that’s unprompted. But, that’s what friends do, right? He and Harry are friends now. Harry stares at him as he walks, feet fumbling from lack of concentration. He doesn’t say anything in reply, just nods and stares. Louis is glad he doesn’t say anything, and he thinks Harry understands that. 

They reach Liam’s store, a bright yellow sign displaying “Jimmie’s Surf Shop” sitting fixed on what looks like a shack. A nice shack, like a shack were hipsters go to feel authentic. Louis pushes through the fake-rickety front door, a smile blooming on his face when he sees Liam sitting behind the cash register reading a magazine; the scent of coconut oil is overwhelming, coating his nostrils as he breathes it in. 

“Oi oi, Liam! Look alive,” He calls. Liam jumps, but looks pleasantly surprised by their entrance. 

“Louis! I’m alive, are you?” Liam walks from behind the counter, showing off his teeth. “I thought you said that you ‘couldn’t give less of a shit about good weather’ because ‘a new episode of House Hunters comes on on Mondays’? You’ve brought Harry with you too. How kind,” He says, coming to stand in front of them, hands on his hips. It’s been so long since Louis has come to Liam’s work, and it’s almost surreal to see him in his work environment, especially since he’s not high off his ass. At home, Liam makes a point of being perpetually high. But, seeing as he spends large amounts of his time teaching amateurs how to do tricks in the middle of the ocean where they could very well die if something goes wrong, it’s probably for the best that he has a No Weed At Work policy. 

“Yes. I thought we’d surprise you. It’s all been an elaborate ruse. House Hunters doesn’t even come on till tomorrow,” Louis says, sticking his tongue out at his roommate. Liam sticks his tongue out back at him. They’re children parading around in poorly made adult masks. “We’re going to surf today. Harry’s never been.”

“Oh! Cool! Wish I could go out there and teach you, but I’ve got shop duty for today, unfortunately.”

“I’ll teach him,” Louis claims, proudly. Liam raises his eyebrows at that. 

“Please try not to die,” is his only response before he walks over to the rack of surfboards that line the wall. 

Harry pushes his sunglasses up into his hair, collecting his curls in a fluffy halo around his face. “No promises,” He says, smirking. He sends a wink to Louis as if he’s letting him in on the fact that it’s a joke. Louis just shakes his head at the taller boy, cheeks hurting with the force of his smile. What a fucking weirdo.

“I’ll rent you guys some soft top longboards since you’re both beginners,” Liam says, ignoring Harry’s comment and shooting a pointed look at Louis. “It’ll make it easier and you’ll be less likely to hurt yourselves when you inevitably wipeout.” He grabs one board at a time, taking them down from the rack on the wall, polo stretching as his muscles work to heave them down. The two boards glint in the natural light in the shop, polished and menacing.

“I get the white one,” Harry declares, no question in his tone. 

“No you don’t.” Louis stares at Harry with a spark of challenge in his eyes. 

“What? Why?” Harry assumes his fight stance: shoulders hunched, feet turned in, voice and eyes strong. 

“Because, Harry, the red board clashes with my swimsuit. You have on yellow, it’ll go better.”

“I’ll look like fucking Ronald McDonald,” Harry spits, face scrunching up at the thought of it. 

Louis puts a hand on his shoulder consolingly, the warmth of his skin soaking through his t-shirt and into Louis’ palm. “Oh, hon, you say that like you don’t already.” He pats Harry’s arm a few times, ignoring his offended squawk and turning his attention back to Liam. 

“It doesn’t much matter about your shorts. You’ll both be renting wetsuits as well,” Liam says, always so logical. “Which, you can come try on now, if you’d like.”

“I still get the white one,” Louis says, turning back to face Harry. Harry shoots daggers with his eyes. Louis rolls his own before walking over to Liam, ready to get his wetsuit on. 

The ocean is calmer today than Louis was expecting, but there is the faint promise of waves farther out. The waves lap at the sand with leisure; the beach is separated by the water, a line running across the shore, splitting the sand into darker and darker shades. The sun is higher in the sky than when they got there, having taken so long with getting their wetsuits on. The rays of light bounce off the vast ocean, sparkling and glittering, transient as it bounces off of the rippling tide. “No one told me wetsuits were this uncomfortable.” Louis turns to look at Harry at the remark, eyes skimming across the horizon to land on the mossy green eyes in front of him. 

“It’s because we have board shorts on underneath,” Louis replies even though they had this conversation a million times at the store. Harry huffs at him, an arm wrapped around his surfboard as it stands in the sand. Louis looks away from Harry’s eyes and back at the ocean. “Normally they get you to practice standing on the board and whatnot on the beach before you get in the ocean, but I don’t really feel like doing that. I think it’ll be okay if we just head straight in. It’s not like we aren’t going to bust our asses in the water anyway.”

“Okay.”

Louis grabs Harry’s free arm, pulling him along for a second before letting go, just making sure Harry follows him as he begins his descent into the water. He watches Harry from the corner of his eye, makes sure he copies what Louis is doing: attaching the cord to his ankle, putting the board on the water, wading out. Louis lifts himself onto the board, positioning himself so the nose of the board sticks out of the water. He glances over at Harry, seeing him lying on his board as well.

“Scoot down a little. The nose of the board should rise above the water,” Louis instructs. Harry scoots down, the board correcting itself appropriately with the shift in weight. “Just try to paddle, mostly with your arms. Go slow, get used to it.” Harry listens and they both paddle slowly, creeping further and further into the ocean. They paddle around for a while, chatting and joking. The fish swim by underneath them, brightly colored, glinting in stark contrast with the monotonous ocean bed. Louis can feel the heat of the sun baring down on his back; his shoulders feeling pinched and radiating, surely to be red-tinged by the time he gets home. 

“Harry.” Harry looks over at the sound of his name. Louis shields his eyes with his hand. “We forgot sunscreen.” 

Harry looks down at his hands accusingly. “Shit, we did.” 

Louis looks away from Harry and out into the sea. He sees a growing swell in the distance, a wall of water forming, curving and churning below the surface. “There’s a wave coming. Turn your board around to face the shore.” Harry does as he’s told, though with great difficultly. You can take this one, okay? I’ll catch the next one,” Louis says, met with a nod from Harry and a determined expression. 

“Okay, to get up, you put your hands on the board in front of you, no not the sides, closer to the center. You push hard with your arms, get on a knee first and then go to your feet.” Louis looks at the oncoming wave, still at a distance but growing. “Try it once before the real deal comes,” Louis commands.

Harry wastes no time with hesitation and pushes up with his arms, banging his knee on the board as he tries to rest on it. It has to hurt and Louis cringes at the impact, but Harry keeps on going, teeth clenched, trying to find his footing. His sense of confidence fails along with his balance as he tries to stand, stance too wide for the board to handle. Louis hears a loud “Fu—“ before he sees a splash next to Harry’s bobbing board. Louis knows he’s okay, just tumbled off, but that doesn’t stop his heart from beating wildly in his chest. 

“Harry! Harry,” Louis calls, trying to rapidly paddle his way over to him. Suddenly, a mop of brown hair pops out of the water with a gasp. 

“Shit,” is the first thing Harry says once he’s clinging to the side of his board, the cord around his ankle keeping it from drifting away from him while he was under. 

Louis breathes in, calming himself. “You okay, Harry?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Harry wipes at his nose, sniffling a few times. 

“Your stance was too wide. It seems more natural to have a wide stance, but narrow stances are more balanced,” Louis says, as if he actually knows what he’s talking about. He’s gotten all of his information from the two times Liam has tried to teach him how to surf when they first moved in together, but acting like he knows what he’s talking about makes him feel better, more in control. Maybe it would’ve been better for them to have gone on a day where Liam could be here. Oh well, it’s too late now. 

Harry nods along anyway, his determination seems to have waned a bit, but it’s still there, latching on. He gets back on the board, sliding up on his belly. Louis checks on the progress of the wave. It’s getting close. He tells Harry, watching him as he gets back into position, facing away from the shore. 

“Good luck. If you end up falling off, don’t panic. Put your hands in front of you to make sure you don’t hit the board and try to swim to the surface,” Louis’ voice is only a little nervous as he instructs him. 

Harry looks over at him; he looks a little nervous too. “Make sure I don’t drown, Lou,” He says. The wave is coming up on them now, so Louis just nods, wordless. Harry looks back in front of him, feeling the wave creep up behind him, stalking and ominous. That’s always the scariest part for Louis, feeling the impending wave, knowing that he’s going to be at its mercy. It begins to cap and Harry pushes himself up, on his knees, on his feet. Louis cheers, loudly, shouting obscenities, but it’s short lived. Harry lasts maybe three seconds on his feet before he topples over into the mass of churning water surrounding him. Louis resists swimming over to him, tries to give him enough space to resurface. The wave has passed now, quickly gone, dissolving along the shore. Louis sees the hint of Harry’s head popping out of the water and gives into the constriction in his chest, paddling over to meet him. 

Harry is coughing, arms thrown around the side of his board. Louis gets close enough, only their two boards between them, bumping gently with the movement of the ocean. He wants to pat his back, help him dislodge the water from his lungs, but he can’t reach. So, instead, he just pats the top of his hand, pruned fingers tapping against smooth skin. Harry looks up at him at the contact, eyelashes dark, dripping water. “That was shit,” Louis says, the first words spoken since Harry wiped out. It makes a smile spread across Harry’s face, laughter breaking out of him, choppy and gleeful. 

“God, it really was shit,” Harry laughs out, belly shaking as the air pushes out of him in bursts. 

“There’s another wave coming. You want to try again?” 

“No, that’s your wave. I think I’m done trying to surf. I’m no Johnny Tsunami.” Harry shakes his head, fake self-deprecatingly. It’s Louis’ turn to laugh. 

“Wasn’t Johnny Tsunami about snowboarding?”

“He surfed too,” Harry answers. He seems really sure of himself, so Louis doesn’t argue it. 

The wave is getting closer. Louis turns around, getting in position. It doesn’t take long for his heart to clench, stomach turning at the feel of the wave taking shape behind him. He pushes up on his arms, feeling them wobble slightly underneath him. Shit. He should have practiced standing up. He hasn’t surfed in so long, but he still manages to get to his feet, albeit shakily. He feels his board ride the wave, but soon after, he feels his feet losing their balance. His body is weightless moments before he crashes down, the impact of the water feeling like whiplash. Under the water is calmer, the churning of the passing wave subdued as he sinks down into the blue. Louis forces his eyes open, fighting the sting as the salt water presses against his eyeballs. His leg is held above the rest of him, tethered to the board with the ankle strap. Swimming, swimming, it feels like hours that Louis is under the water before he breaks back through the surface, letting his lungs work, expanding and contracting, inhale and exhale. His eyes still burn, his nostrils too from the water that was shoved up them as he fell into the wave. Louis’ focusing on his breathing, staring at the pale blue water that encompasses him when his board is suddenly being pushed in front of him. 

He’s broken out of his daze, attention snapped to Harry, who’s still pushing at his board in an attempt to get Louis to latch onto it. He takes it, grasping onto its side to keep himself afloat, giving his legs a break from their constant treading. “You okay? That looked painful,” Harry’s voice is gentle as he says it, quiet as if he’s worried speaking too loud will cause injury. 

“I’m fine,” Louis’ voice is hoarse, so he clears his throat, repeating it again. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

“I don’t want to surf anymore,” Harry says. 

Louis looks at him, his curly hair drying in clumps around his face, mussed and crunchy from the saltwater. “Okay.”

They swim lazily to the shore, letting the waves push them closer to their destination. They wade out of the water, the water soaked into their clothes and skin weighing them down, making their movements drag. Louis unzips the back of his wetsuit, pulling it off clumsily, desperate to get the clinging fabric off. Harry watches in amusement, eyes sparkling, before taking off his own with much more grace. Louis flips him off before laying in the sand, letting the coarse grains rub against his back. He closes his eyes, but he can still feel Harry lay down next to him, body warmth radiating. They lay there in the sun, skin burning and chests rising and falling in sync for what feels like days, weeks. The sun hangs lower in the sky when they finally begin to move, shifting their tired muscles and spent bones while they walk back to the surf shop; their surfing boards drag along beside them recklessly. They return their rental boards and suits, giving Liam smiles and telling him about how they’re massive failures. He laughs along as Louis describes Harry’s wipeout and tells Louis that he’ll see him at home in a few hours. 

They get in the car, sand crunching between their toes and covering their skin. The leather seats feel smooth underneath such rough dusting; their shirts are discarded, thrown in the floorboards. The same “ambiance” music plays on the way back, the only noise in the otherwise silent car. They’re both exhausted, having spent hours baking in the sun and desperately trying to be masters of the untamable ocean, and the lack of conversation feels comfortable, welcoming even, easy to fall into. Louis is almost sad as they pull up to his building. Almost. 

“Today was fun,” Louis says, collecting his few belongings. He looks at Harry before reaching for the door handle. “I’ll see you tomorrow? I’d imagine you’ve tried almost everything on the menu by now, but there is no shame in repeating your favorites.”

Harry smiles, but it’s just for a moment, dimming faster than usual. His shoulders are hunched in, vulnerable. Louis feels his own eyebrows furrow—ignoring how he feels like he’s stealing something so intrinsic to Harry in doing so—confused about what Harry is preparing himself to argue about. He almost asks, but Harry beats him to it.

“Will you go out with me, Lou?” What?

“What?” Harry huffs, rolling his eyes. 

“On a date, Louis. Will you go out with me?” Louis’ heart, lungs, and brain stop altogether. A date? Harry is asking him on a date?

“What? No,” Louis says. No. No, why would he want to go out with Harry? Why is Harry even asking? “Harry, no. We’re friends.”

Harry looks confused, his eyebrows furrowed. Louis thinks it looks better on him anyway, natural. “We’re friends. We work on the show together and we’re friends. I don’t want…I think that would be messy, and I don’t really want to go down that road,” Louis pushes out. It feels strange, almost painful as his slips out of his mouth. But, he means it.

Harry looks hurt, sad and folded in on himself, and Louis’ heart drops, falling somewhere at his feet. “I’m sorry, Harry,” Louis says. He means that too. He can’t look at Harry anymore, doesn’t know what to say, so he gets out of the car. 

He walks into his building without looking back. He can’t.

Louis smokes all night, constant streams of smoke flowing in and out of lungs. He gets Liam to bring him some alcohol when he gets off of work. He spills everything to Liam as he downs a shot of vodka. He doesn’t cry, but he can’t help the overwhelming heaviness in his chest, in the pit of his stomach. There’s a darkness flowing through his veins, into his head, but he chases it with more alcohol, trying to cleanse himself of it. Why would he want to date Harry? Why would he even ask? Louis is his friend. They’ve just become friends recently, a few months. 

Louis spirals, falling into a pit of questions, of worry. What if everything is fucked up? Louis thinks about going back to how it used to be: working with Harry without talking, without friendship, without laughter. He wonders if the subsequent pain is because of his ribs cracking or some other unknown cause. He said no because…well, because they’re friends. Louis’ never thought of Harry as more. Hell, he’s barely even had time to adjust to thinking of him as a friend. When did Harry start thinking about them as more than that? Why did Louis not notice? Why is Liam not pouring him another shot? 

Liam forces Louis to go to bed close to 3am, tucking him into his sheets in a dark room. Louis continues to spiral, mind never stopping. He doesn’t know how long it is before sleep takes him, but he does know that he feels like shit when his alarm goes off in the morning. There’s a dark pleasure that comes from his hangover, the queasiness and pounding head helping him to ignore the questions that his mind keeps spitting out, questions that he doesn’t have answers to. His shoulders are pink and tender; his cheeks match, warm underneath the gentle press of his fingertips. For a second he thinks about telling Harry off for forgetting the sunscreen when he sees him, but then he reminds himself that he’s probably just ruined their friendship, sending him spiraling all over again. But, is it really his fault? Isn’t Harry to blame? What made him think that he should ask Louis out? Louis wants to simply push all of the blame on Harry, just for the easiness of emotion. Anger is volatile. It rips through flesh and it burns down cities. Louis knows how to handle anger, knows how to direct it towards people and sure as hell knows how to direct it at Harry. Anger is preferable to this weird sense of loss that he feels, this nagging that he just can’t place. 

He drowns it out in the shower, lets it rinse off down the drain. He gets ready for work, the starch fabric of his clothing rubbing at his sunburn, uncomfortable and itching. He won’t have to see Harry today. Surely he’ll avoid the restaurant, avoiding Louis. He can text him the theme for the week, and then he’ll see him on the set on Saturday, everything reversing, reverting back to the way it used to be. Louis ignores the sadness that pings at him when he thinks about it. He’d grown to enjoy Harry’s company, grown comfortable in the warmth of it. 

The drive to work is a rush of wind and the bite of sun on his already burned face. At least this time he has his sunglasses. He clocks in, Avery sending him a small smile in acknowledgement as he clocks out. Apron cinched tightly around his waist, Louis walks into the dining area, taking note of the crowd of tables on the verge of leaving. Tuesdays are always slow during his shift. He usually enjoys it, letting himself relax or talk to Harry, but today he wishes for an influx of customers, wants to be busy. Louis chats with a table of old ladies, their hair white and curled, cheeks rosy and pearls shining. “Would you ladies like anything else?”

“No, no, dear. We best be off! We’ve got a show to attend, if you wouldn’t mind hurrying,” The woman in the middle says. Her small frame is covered in oversized black clothes, her shawl practically swallowing her up. 

“Ah, a show? How lovely!” Louis smiles at them, collecting their plates and stacking them along his arms: a balancing act. He takes the plates to the kitchen and grabs their bill, dropping it off at the table with a smile. 

He turns around, ready to check on his other two tables, but he stops in his tracks, heart jumping into his throat at the sight of Harry. Harry sitting at a table in his section, quietly looking at his phone. His hair is up, pulled into a bun. His cheeks are dusted in a pink hue, burned just like Louis’. Louis runs a hand over his face roughly and walks over with unease, unsure of where they stand, unsure of why Harry’s here. 

“Harry,” Louis says, his voice coming out weaker than he meant for it to. He shakes himself, trying to at least regain his professionalism. As Harry looks up at him, Louis is overwhelmed with guilt. He feels guilty for saying no, for turning him down. 

“Hey, Lou,” Harry says. The nickname makes Louis’ breathing shudder. He wasn’t expecting it, but, really, he wasn’t expecting Harry to be here at all. 

“You came. I wasn’t expecting you to come.” The restaurant hums quietly around them. Louis wants to sit, wants to sit down at the table across from Harry and figure this out. It’s strange considering he just wanted to run away at the sight of him, but it’s there and he fights it. He has to remain somewhat professional. 

“Well, it wasn’t…” Harry sighs, voice stopping. He runs a hand through his hair before starting again. “I don’t want things to get awkward. I don’t want us to feel uncomfortable because of yesterday. We work together and we’re friends, and I don’t want either of those things to change.”

Louis feels relief flood his body, letting out a sigh of pent up air that he thinks has been stuck in his lungs since he got out of Harry’s car. “I don’t either,” He says. 

Harry smiles faintly as he looks up at Louis. “Good. Now, can I get my drink? I’m parched.”

Louis smacks the back of his head lightly, holding in his laughter. He’s happy, giddy. Everything isn’t going to go to shit and Louis is so relieved. He’s so relieved he actually squeezes Harry’s lemons for him, stirring in the two packets of Splenda. He checks on his other two tables, trying to get them finished up and moving on. Harry’s eyes sparkle when Louis gives him his iced water.

“You did it for me,” He says, smiling up at Louis. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Louis says, flicking his fringe out of his eyes with his hands on his hips. 

Harry puffs out a short breath of laughter. His hands circle the glass, fingers getting wet against the condensation. “Thank you,” He says. It makes Louis smile, gross and cheesy, overly pleased by Harry’s expression of gratitude. 

“No problem. Never expect me to ever do it again, though.”

“I thought you didn’t know what I was talking about?” Harry raises his eyebrows at Louis and Louis wants to just sit down with him. Actually, what Louis wants is for them to be in his apartment, laughing and smoking weed. 

“I’ve got to go check on my other tables,” Louis says. Harry makes some comment about being one of Louis’ tables and a paying customer, but Louis walks away before he can finish saying it. 

His shift passes quicker than he was expecting that day. Harry told him he’d see him tomorrow after paying his bill and Louis nodded in response, fighting a smile from forming on his face. He lets it bloom the next day when Harry shows up, sitting at a table in the sunlight. He writes a song this week about flowers growing in a garden, springing from the soil. It feels appropriate for some reason. 

It is late Monday night when Louis’ phone rings. He’s been working alone on a song about sunsets all afternoon, Liam off at work. Harry’s name flashes along the screen and Louis puts his guitar down to answer it. “I hope you have a fucking good reason to have not responded to my texts all day, Harry,” He says into the receiver, only partially joking. 

“Hey, Lou. Sorry. I’ve been busy all day with the airlines,” Harry says, his voice strained. The noise in the background sounds like he’s moving things, loud thumps and intermittent slamming making their way across the line. 

“What? The airlines? You taking me on vacation?” Harry laughs at that, loud and short. It makes Louis smile. 

“No, I wish. My sister, Gemma, you remember Gemma?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, getting up from the beanbag and making his way into the kitchen to rummage through the cabinets. 

“Her appendix burst today and she’s had to have emergency surgery,” Harry says. Louis can hear it now, the tension in his voice, the worry. Louis stops his rummaging, stops his movements all together.

“Shit.”

“Yeah, so I’m flying to New York today and I don’t know when I’m going to be back. I’ve got to help my mom take care of her once she’s out of surgery and that might be a few days or more,” Harry says, running slightly out of breath. The rumblings over the line sound like he’s moving around. He’s probably packing, ready to go. 

“Okay. Don’t worry about anything here; I’ll take care of the show stuff,” Louis says. He can’t help but feel a little panicked, his chest tight and fingers itching. “What are you doing with Sybil? Do you need me to watch after her?”

Louis hears the slamming of a door and the sound of Harry walking down concrete stairs, the connection crackling and static disrupting them. “No, thanks though. I’ve got some expensive ass pet spa coming to pick her up in an hour. She’ll be fine.”

“Okay, good,” Louis says, listening to Harry breathing through the phone, bust and constantly moving. They don’t say anything, just letting the phone feedback and their quiet exhales fill the spaces where words should go. “Harry? Are you okay?” Louis finally asks, breaking the peaceful and chaotic silence. 

With the question hanging in the air, Louis hears all movement and commotion on Harry’s end stop. There’s a pause before he answers, “I think so. I’m just worried, which I shouldn’t be. It’s just an appendix removal. She’ll be fine. People get these all the time and they’re always fine, right?”

“Yeah, she’ll be fine. She will,” Louis answers. This moment feels soft: Harry asking for reassurance, Louis wanting to desperately give him that exact thing. This is what friendship is, isn’t it?

Harry breathes out, release. “Then, I’m fine.” 

Louis feels his chest loosen, lets his lungs expand. “Do you know when you’ll be back?”

“No, but you’ll be the first to know,” Harry says. It makes Louis smile, lips stretching wide and teeth on display. 

“I better be.” He imagines that Harry is smiling too. Both of them, phones pressed against the remnants of their fading sunburns, grinning like loons. 

They’re silent again, the movement on Harry’s side resuming. “I have to go now,” Harry say eventually. Louis doesn’t feel disappointed. He doesn’t. “But, thank you. Thank you, Lou.” 

Louis closes his eyes, breathing in deeply. He runs a hand over his face. “Anytime. Stay safe, Harry,” Louis pushes out, hanging up the phone before Harry can respond. Louis grabs a bag of chips and fills a glass with water, drinking it in one go and refilling it, before he walks back into the living room. He sits on the newest beanbag, the one Harry bought. It’s fuller, the newness making it less mushy, easier to stop himself from sinking. He begins searching for the chords to the song he was planning on covering this week. It feels strange and daunting now to play an already existing song on his guitar, so used to just making up his own beats and patterns that flow with his own words. He tries not to think about how much he would’ve hated that four months ago when Harry first came into the show, into his life. He tries not to think about how he doesn’t really mind it now, doesn’t mind this newfound dependence. He really tries to not think at all. 

*** 

Louis sits with Liam in their dark living room, no light streaming in through the window and only one turned on inside the apartment. Liam is holding Scoobert reverently in the palms of his hands. Louis has been practicing his guitar since he got off work earlier, trying to make it resemble a real song to the best of his ability. “It’s fucked up that he hasn’t even texted me once since he left, isn’t it? It’s fucking fucked up,” Louis says. He strums lazily for a few seconds before giving up, setting the instrument on the floor and making grabby hands at the bong. Liam looks at him through narrowed eyes before handing it over. “I mean, he’s in New York, not fucking, I don’t know, Prague or some shit.”

“That’s true. He is not in Prague,” Liam says. Real fucking helpful, Liam, Louis thinks. He doesn’t say it, though, just focuses on filtering smoke through his respiratory system. 

“Fuck Harry. Such a dickhead,” Louis coughs out, letting the smoke tumble out of his mouth. They sit wordlessly as Louis passes Scoobert back into Liam’s awaiting hands and Liam takes a hit. He ends up keeping it after his hit, letting it rest safely in his arms. Louis doesn’t mind; he’s had enough weed for tonight. He should probably just call it a night and tuck himself into bed. He’s got an earlier shift tomorrow at Le Copain, and the thought of it makes him want to bang his head against the wall. These past few days at the restaurant have been dragging, boredom filling the crevices between tables and flowing in a stream across the hardwood floors. Louis stands, stretching his arms to the ceiling, letting his back crack and pop. “I’m off to bed,” He tells Liam. 

Liam looks up at him with Scoobert now sitting balanced on his bare chest. “You miss him don’t you?” Liam asks. Louis stops his trek to his room, caught off guard by the question. He had been expecting a simple “Goodnight”. 

Louis scoffs, delayed. “No, piss off.” Liam shrugs, laying his head back to stare at the ceiling. Louis wonders briefly if it’s dancing again tonight as he walks down the hallway, shutting himself in his dark bedroom. 

He lays in his bed, staring at the nothingness above him, and it hits him. He misses Harry. It’s been three days since Louis talked to him, and he misses him, wants nothing more than to see his stupid face. He wants to scream into the void of his room, but instead he just settles for kicking his feet rapidly and violently against his mattress. He throws his covers off his body, which takes more effort than necessary because of where they got tangled with his legs during his kickboxing session. Once free, Louis storms out of his room, walking into the living room to see Liam still laying on the beanbags. His eyes are closed and his chest rises and falls slowly, asleep. Scoobert is sitting, carefully placed, on the ground beside him. 

“I miss him,” Louis announces. Liam doesn’t wake up, doesn’t stir, so Louis gets closer, crouching down in front of his roommate’s face to shake his shoulder. Liam begins to move, eyes blinking open blearily. “I miss him, Li,” Louis repeats, voice just a whisper. Liam stares at him for a while before bringing one arm to rest on his shoulder.

“’S okay, Lou,” Liam says, words slurred with sleep. He pulls Louis into his chest, a drugged version of a hug. Louis appreciates the effort and lets himself take it in, the comfort, or attempted comfort, of his best friend. He pulls himself up after it seems like Liam’s fallen back asleep. He shakes his shoulder again until Liam’s breaths become shallower, more awake. Louis brings his roommate’s arm up to sit around his shoulders, putting his own under his armpit, linked across his back. 

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” He says, standing slowly. Liam doesn’t open his eyes, but his feet and legs begin to work, complying with Louis’s movements. They move slowly to Liam’s room, the two of them stumbling as Louis supports both of their weight. He gets Liam into bed and comfortable. He would’ve been stiff and sore in the morning, neck having been at an awkward angle on the beanbag. Louis closes the door quietly behind him and goes back to his room. He falls back into his bed, hoping distantly for sleep and wishing he knew if Harry missed him too. 

***

Louis feels out of place on set Saturday. He barely remembers a time where he did practically the whole show by himself. Zayn’s doing art this week, per request, but Louis still sits by himself, playing the guitar on that big red couch; the swirling, convoluted design of the background looks brighter today, more abnormal. It hurts Louis’ eyes. After everything is over, he walks to his stuff, bending down to grab his backpack, but a dark shadow falls over him. He spins around when he hears the clearing of a throat. 

“Harry!”

“Hey, Lou,” Harry says, smiling. His hair is in a messy bun on the top of his head, his clothes wrinkled and slept in. “Came straight here from the airport. The show go well?”

Louis smiles at the nickname as he smacks Harry across the back of the head. “You’re a fucking dick for not texting me the entire time you were gone. An absolute bag of dicks,” Louis says. He’s smiling but he absolutely means it. He thinks Harry knows that. 

He rubs at the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry. Things were really busy,” He explains. It’s a shit excuse.

“That’s a shit excuse,” Louis says. “Go on a date with me.” It’s not a question. Louis says it with conviction. 

“What?” Harry stammers out, eyes widening. 

“I wasn’t ready before, but I am now. I’m ready to go on a date. With you,” Louis says. He stares at Harry, smile still plastered on his face. It took him time, it took thinking, it took tossing and turning, and it took a whole lot of missing Harry, but Louis realized that Harry is his friend. Harry is his friend, but with the balloon sitting in Louis’ chest and the helium in his veins, Harry could also be so much more. 

Harry stares a moment longer, eyes looking at Louis unbelieving. “Yeah. Yeah, okay,” He finally breathes out, a smile growing to match Louis’. 

“Good. Now, how’s your sister doing?” Louis asks, grabbing his bag and his guitar case and walking to the door with Harry at his side, telling him about his time in New York with the gleaming skyscrapers and smog-filled air. 

***

Louis meets Harry at one of the fanciest restaurants in L.A. Harry practically threw a fit when Louis refused to let him pick him up first, but Louis stood his ground. It would be absolutely absurd for Harry to drive an hour from downtown to pick him up just to drive another hour back to the restaurant. Louis also put up a bit of a fight about what they’re doing on the date—eating at a fancy restaurant is not Louis’ ideal date, especially considering he spends the vast majority of his time working at a fancy restaurant—but Harry won out on that argument, claiming that he technically asked Louis out first and therefore gets to plan the date. 

So, here Louis is, standing outside of a tall, black building in the middle of downtown L.A. He’s wearing an outfit eerily similar to his work clothes with the exception of the shirt being a powder blue instead of starch white. At least he gets to leave a few buttons unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up. He stares at his reflection in the tinted windows of the building, watches as the hair style he spent absolutely forever crafting is ruined by the breeze. He watches as Harry’s reflection walks up to meet his own. He turns to meet him. Harry’s wearing a button up with thin, black micro-stripes running vertically along the burgundy background. Louis smiles at him, glad to know that even when dressed up Harry loves to adorn himself in printed shirts. His hair falls in rivulets past his shoulders, soft and glowing slightly in the streetlight. 

“You look nice,” Louis says as they begin walking to the doors of the restaurant, letting Harry lead the way. He’s better at navigating overly-fancy and modern places. 

“You do too,” Harry says with a grin, opening the door for Louis to walk through. The lobby is large. The ceilings must be at least fifteen feet high; a large, ornate chandelier hangs from thick, wooden beams. Everything is made of an almost black hardwood: the floors, the walls, the ceilings, and the hostess stand. The windows let in minimal light, the tint holding the majority of the L.A. sunshine at bay. The far wall is decorated with an extensive, abstract art piece made entirely out of metal. It’s like walking into a vampire’s wet dream, honestly. Harry strides up to the hostess, giving her the name of the reservation. She leads them to an elevator. The ride up is short but extremely awkward as the hostess tries to make forced, friendly conversation. Their table is large and round, far too big for two people. The seats are like couches, the cushion covered in a black and silver marbled pattern; the table is made of the same dark wood that covers the interior of the building. Everything is dark, soaking in the lighting from the overhead fixtures and reflecting a harsh imitation back into the room. 

“This place is a bit Edward Cullen, isn’t it,” Louis whispers as they climb onto the sofa/booth even though there’s no need for whispering; the restaurant is packed, tables full of young people dressed in shining clothes, speaking loudly and excitedly with their flutes of champagne and wrists of bracelets. Apparently Louis didn’t get the memo that you’re only supposed to wear reflective and glittering attire here. 

Harry bites his lip, trying to hold in his laughter. Once he composes himself, he leans in, whispering “A bit,” conspiratorially. They’re smiling at each other when their waiter walks up, a woman in her late twenties. Her dark brown hair is pulled up in a loose ponytail, her skin pale is contrasted by her bright red lips. Bella Swan eat your heart out. 

“Hi! What can I get you two to drink?” She asks, voice low and hoarse but still friendly. 

“I’ll have water,” Louis says, before glancing at Harry. He smiles as he listens to him order his standard knock-off lemonade. A glowing feeling of pride consumes Louis as he watches, pleased to see that Harry’s making eye contact as he speaks to the waitress, treating her with human decency. Louis probably shouldn’t feel like stars are shining from Harry’s eyes just because he treats his waiters like human beings, but he does. Harry’s grown so much in the time that he’s known him and Louis thinks that he’s worthy of solar system eyes. The waitress walks away, and they speak in low voices as they look at the menu, poking fun at the gothic style paper and charcoal-colored silverware. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know this place was like…this,” Harry says, burying his face in his hands. Louis smiles, patting Harry’s back consolingly.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s the thought that counts,” Louis says, his hand lingering on Harry’s back. Harry even shifts slightly into the touch. “Plus, this truly is a new take on Asian cuisine. Don’t think I’ve ever gotten fried rice at a gothic, vampire-inspired restaurant before.” Harry laughs, unabashed, bringing his head up to look at Louis as he does so. His eyes are squinted and Louis feels his squint back in response, a smile gracing his face.

It’s then that the waitress comes back to bring their drinks and take their order. After she disappears again, off to serve her other tables, Harry and Louis fall into their usual conversation varying from talking about the show and music to small arguments about the smell of dogwood trees. It’s nice in here, the atmosphere relaxing, even though it’s decked in black and filled with glittering socialites. It makes time slip by, fluid, and soon their plates are empty, bellies full, and the check paid. Harry paid, but Louis tipped, a very generous tip at that. 

“Harry, I don’t think I can move,” Louis complains, rubbing his stomach in small circles. “I’ve eaten too much; I can’t possibly get up.”

Harry reaches out to rub Louis’ stomach for him, but Louis slaps his hand away. Tummy rubs are not a first date kind of thing. That’s strictly third date stuff. 

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to. We’ve got plans,” Harry says, looking at Louis, who’s slouched down in the booth, hair in disarray, and sticking a hand between the buttons of his shirt so he can rub his overly-full stomach. He’s looking at Louis like he’s the entire world, but Louis doesn’t even notice, too busy focused on not wanting to move ever again. 

Harry slides out of the large booth with slight difficulty and walks over to Louis’ side, waiting. 

“Will you carry me?” Louis asks, only half joking. 

“Sure,” Harry says, reaching for Louis and sliding his arm around his back, ready to lift him out up. Louis squeals. He would be embarrassed if it were quieter in the restaurant, or if he cared what these people thought of him, but neither is the case. He slaps at Harry’s shoulder, laughing.

“Get off of me, you giant,” He says, pushing at Harry until he stops trying to pick him up. Harry’s laughing too, face scrunched up in mirth. Louis thinks they’re quite the pair. 

Harry eventually backs up, giving Louis the space he needs to get up. They walk back to the elevator, riding it down to the grandiose lobby, and back onto the busy street. Louis hadn’t realized that L.A. was this busy on a Sunday night, people painted up and sparkling in the streetlights. Everything seems to be glowing: shop signs, car headlights, bleached teeth. It’s disorienting and Louis grabs onto Harry’s arm so he doesn’t lose him in the chaos. “Where to now?” He asks, the two of them walking in stride. 

“My car,” Harry replies, his face smug. 

Louis pinches lightly where he was holding onto his arm. “Seriously, what’s next?”

“Movies. Thought we could see that new superhero thing. I think they’re on the ninth Captain America movie now. This one’s about him crying because Bucky got a haircut or something. Takes place on Mars. I heard the budget was huge.” Louis stops moving, standing in the middle of the sidewalk. A man wearing a mesh shirt bumps roughly into his shoulder, but he ignores it, tugging on Harry’s sleeve to get him to stop too.

“Fucking seriously?” Louis exclaims. This is why he should plan their dates. 

Harry’s brow furrows. “What? Do you not like superheroes?” 

“No, I do, but a movie? Really?”

“What’s wrong with a movie?” Harry asks, exasperated. He runs a hand through his hair. It makes Louis feel bad, criticizing the date that Harry carefully crafted, but only marginally.

Louis loops his arm through Harry’s and begins walking in the direction of Harry’s car. “Harry, I’m so glad you took the time to plan this out and I’m glad that we’re here together. It’s nice and fun and whatnot, but there is no way I’m going to dinner at a rich hipster restaurant only to go sit in a dark movie theater where we can’t even do anything.”

Harry unlocks his car as they approach it. Louis untangles their arms so they can both slide in. The leather seats have been cleaned, the floorboards thoroughly vacuumed. Louis’ insides cringe when he remembers the last time he was in this car, salty and sticky and confused. “So, where to then?” Harry asks, starting the car. Louis pulls up directions on his phone and reads them off, instructing Harry on the ways to go to cut through the dense traffic. The cars around them hum, engines whirring. Harry’s playing some upbeat techno music this time, the electronic rhythm of it giving the night an electric feel, buzzing and alive. They pull up to the building, a large replica of an Easter Island head marking the entrance. “What the fuck? Putt putt golf, Louis? Really?” 

Louis laughs at the bewilderment on Harry’s face. “Yes! It’ll be fun. This way we can actually, you know, talk while we’re on our date,” Louis says, hopping out of the car. Harry climbs out, walking over to Louis with pursed lips and his creased brow. 

“I can’t believe I like you,” He says. Louis gets close to him, placing a hand on Harry’s chest and looking into his eyes. Harry’s brow smooths out, pursed lips relaxing into a soft smile. 

“Well, imagine how I feel liking you,” Louis replies. Harry scoffs loudly in offense, eyes widening. “I feel I’ve gone absolutely mad. I’m on a date with you. What has the world become?” Louis laughs out, taking a step back from Harry and turning towards the door. 

Harry comes to stand by his side, leaning down to whisper in his ear, “It’s one of pure imagination, isn’t it?” 

What Louis didn’t consider was how incredibly bad at mini golf they are. The both of them took three tries to get the ball in on the very first hole and the course is literally just a flat, straight line. They’re currently on the last hole. Hours have passed, the moon a waning gibbous high above them, the stars invisible but still there. They’re the only ones left, all the kids and parents having left three holes ago. Harry’s got his shirt halfway undone and his hair pulled up with the spare hair tie he had on his wrist. It is mini golf, but they’ve still got scores in the two-hundreds and sweat sticking to their skin, even though the breeze has been chilling all night, blowing through the openings of their unbuttoned shirts. Louis, after spending thirty minutes trying and trying and continuously failing, finally got the ball in the hole, over a series of small hills and under a large, moving windmill. “Hell yeah! Fuck yeah! Fucking nailed it,” Louis yells, jumping up and down in victory. He pumps his fists in the air, wielding his golf club like a weapon. Harry howls into the night, clapping in celebration. It’s probably a good thing everyone else has gone. 

“That was amazing! It only took you thirty-eight hits,” Harry says, writing down on their score card. “That’s got to be a record. Best putt putt golf player in L.A.” 

“I know right! Fucking wrecked it,” Louis says. They’re both smiling at each other. The light sweat on their faces makes them look like they’re glowing. Maybe they are, the happiness radiating off of them, finding a way to escape their cramped insides. This is much better than the movies. “Alright, then, Harry. Get this one in a hole-in-one.” 

“And what do I get if I do?” Harry asks, stepping up to his golf ball, positioning himself. 

“I’ll give you a victory kiss,” Louis says, laughing as Harry’s head whips around to stare at him.

“Game fucking on,” he says, face determined as he turns back to his ball. He bends down and practically lays on the ground, nose nearly touching the golf ball, trying to somehow line it up. After a few minutes, he stands back up, jumping up and down and wiggling his arms to warm up. 

When he starts to do stretches, Louis has had enough waiting and calls out, “Enough! Just hit the damn ball.” 

Harry turns to stick his tongue out at him, but not long after, he finally hits it. The small plastic ball jets off with the immense force that Harry puts behind the swinging of the club, flying straight over the series of small hills. The problem comes when it hits the very top of the windmill, flying far too high, and ricochets off, falling back into the valley of one of the small hills. Louis laughs as Harry yells obscenities and stomps around. 

“Well done,” He says as Harry finds his ball and lines up the club to hit it again. Harry flips him off. 

It takes another twenty-three hits for him to get it in the hole. “Hey, that genuinely was well done. You got it in there far faster than I did,” Louis says, rubbing Harry’s arm consolingly as they walk back to the main building to return the balls and clubs. 

“Not good enough,” Harry grumbles. To make him feel better, Louis holds his hand on the walk back to the car. It works, Harry’s face softening, his fingers gripping Louis’ own tight but not uncomfortably so. They drive back to Louis’ car with the techno music playing as a soundtrack to the slowly emptying streets. It’s nearing 2:30, and the roads are now occupied by Ubers and taxies, filled with tipsy people who feel great now but will puking glitter tomorrow. Louis looks over at Harry, smiling to himself, happy to be in this car with its weird music, feeling sweaty and glowing and very much infatuated with a rich, spoiled, and annoying asshole. 

Harry parks the car behind Louis’. “I had fun. This was really fun,” Harry says, smiling. He looks tired. Louis feels tired too, not looking forward to the hour-long drive home. “We should do it again soon. Next week? I know you’ve only got Mondays off.” Louis blinks lazily, staring at Harry. Instead of answering, he leans in close, across the center console, letting it dig into his side. Harry stops breathing when Louis loops his arms over his shoulders, continuing to lean in further, his nose bumping into Harry’s cheek. Their drying sweat feels gross as their foreheads touch, leaning on one another. They just breathe for a second, eyes closed and hearts thundering in this half-embrace, before their lips meet. It’s slow and soft, feathery and salty. It lasts only a moment but it stretches on, elongating time itself for them, letting this feeling last a little longer, letting their hearts explode a little more. But, eventually, Louis leans back, letting himself breathe air into his lungs, trying to resurface. 

His voice breaks a little as he says, “Yeah. Next week is good,” and gets out of the car. The yellowing light of the parking garage seems to bend to his will as he walks to his car, ducking down to slide into the driver’s seat. Harry sits there, motionless and staring, until Louis turns his engine over, his small car coming to life. Louis’ insides vibrate the whole way home. 

*** 

Louis knocks tentatively on Annalise’s office door, knuckles rapping against the white-painted wood. He hears her voice answer, small through the layers between them, “Come in!” and he opens the door to see her as she always is: red hair and lipstick, long nails on a keyboard, perfect eyeliner surrounding cold, judgmental eyes. He smiles. “Tomlinson, what do you need?” She asks, not looking away from her computer. 

“I’ve got someone out here who you need to meet,” He says. She looks up at him at that, confused, but she doesn’t say anything as she gets up to follow him into the dining room. It’s only moderately busy, the lunch crowd having just shuffled out into the bright, sunshine-filled late autumn day.

They walk up to the table together, both of their shoes clacking against the floor. Louis can smell her perfume as he stands beside her; it smells like hydrangeas, and he finds that weirdly comforting. Harry’s sitting with his back to them, his red Hawaiian shirt on his back and his pea coat draped over his chair. He’s wearing his hair up in a bun today because he got a trim recently and feels self-conscious about it looking too short. He complained to Louis about it for hours yesterday after he got it done. Louis disgusts himself with how fond he is. Harry looks up at them, smirking. He thinks this whole thing is hilarious, meeting the boss. 

“Annalise, you told me quite a while ago that if I got a boyfriend I had to introduce you to him, and I figured I’ve waited long enough. So, Annalise, this is Harry,” Louis says. He feels like the literal biggest dork in the entire world, but he is also genuinely afraid of what would happen if Annalise found out that he hadn’t introduced them. She has very long, sharp fingernails and Louis doubts she’s afraid of using them.

“Nice to meet you,” Harry says, a little less smug under her critical gaze. His shoulders hunch in and his eyes grow strong as he looks up at them.

Annalise stares at him for a while, analyzing him, eyes picking apart every part of his character silently. She doesn’t respond to him, turning back to Louis. “Thank you for introducing us, Louis. He seems very nice,” She says, her face seems softer as she says it, but Louis just blames that on a trick of the lights. She turns her attention back to Harry, eyes cutting. “Louis is one of our best waiters here,” She says, voice hard and dangerous. Louis tries not to explode at the compliment; it’s hard considering that was the nicest thing he’s ever heard Annalise say about him.

“If you hurt him, I’ll gut you like a fish,” She threatens, her eyes anger-filled daggers directed at Harry. She turns sharply on her high heel and walks away, done with the conversation and heading back to her office, leaving Harry and Louis sitting shocked in her wake. 

*** 

Louis and Harry sit close together on the over-stuffed red couch, shoulders bumping as Harry plays the guitar. Louis smiles at the camera as he sings, “ _Let’s have bizarre celebrations. Let’s forget who, forget what, forget where_.” He digs his feet into the shag carpet beneath him as he sways along to the music. His fingertips tingle where they rest on his knee. “ _Let’s pretend we don’t exist, let’s pretend we’re in Antarctica. Maybe I’ll never die, I’ll just keep growing younger with you_.” He glances over at Harry as they both sing the words together. He finds Harry already looking at him, cheek dimpling with his grin. “ _And you’ll grow younger too. Now it seems too lovely to be true, but I know the best things always do_.” Their voices dance together through the lyrics, waltzing to the rhythm of the guitar strings that Harry plucks carefully beneath his fingers. Louis grins back before he looks into the camera, looking at all of those little kids who’ll be watching them on their TV screens on Monday morning. They’ll sit in the pajamas, not quite ready to face the day, and see a big, multicolor backdrop, a dated, orange shag rug, and two boys sinking into a big red couch, showing off as many teeth as they can.

**Author's Note:**

> come say [hi](http://www.louisbigfatbutt.tumblr.com)!
> 
> The songs referenced/quoted in the fic: 
> 
> When You Sleep by Cake  
> Octopus's Garden by the Beatles  
> In the Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel  
> Le Temps de l'amour by April March  
> Misty Mountain Hop by Led Zeppelin  
> Kids by MGMT  
> Wrath Pinned to the Mist and Other Games by of Montreal 
> 
> Some other songs to listen to that are relevant:
> 
> OLIVIA BY ONE DIRECTION (obv.)  
> Drive by Halsey  
> Ssslowdreamsss by Light Pollution (ambiance music in Harry's car? yes)  
> Extreme Wealth and Casual Cruelty by Unknown Mortal Orchestra


End file.
